iARET 

vIUN 


SUPPORT 


BY 

MARGARET  ASHMUN 


TOPLESS  TOWERS.     A  ROMANCE  OF  MORNING- 
BIDE  HEIGHTS. 

MODERN  SHORT  STORIES. 
STEPHEN'S  LAST  CHANCE. 
ISABEL  CARLETON'S  YEAR. 
MARION  FREAK'S  SUMMER. 
ISABEL  CARLETON'S  FRIENDS. 
ISABEL  CARLETON  AT  HOME. 
ISABEL  CARLETON  IN  THE  WEST. 
THE  HEART  OF  ISABEL  CARLETON. 
SUPPORT 


SUPPORT 


BY 

MARGARET  ASHMUN 


gotft 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1922 

All  rights  reserved 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES   OT  AMEBJCA 


COPYRIGHT,  1922, 
BY  MARGARET  ASHMUN 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  September,  1922. 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 
New  York,  U.  S.  A. 


To 
BLANCHE  DUNBAR  NORDVI 


2134070 


SUPPORT 

CHAPTER  I 


RAIN  had  fallen  earlier  in  the  day;  but  as  the 
train  sped  north  and  west,  the  sky  grew  clearer  and 
the  sun  brighter.  Now,  at  five  o'clock  on  this 
October  afternoon,  the  heavens  showed  a  radiant 
pale  blue,  and  the  low  cirrus  clouds  bore  touches  of 
gold  and  pink. 

Constance  Moffatt,  crowded  close  to  the  window 
of  the  Pullman  car,  searched  the  landscape  with 
eyes  which  showed  an  avidity  of  recognition.  They 
scanned  the  fields  falling  dull  in  the  shadows  from 
encircling  firs  and  poplars.  Corn  shocks  made  long 
rows  radiating  from  the  center  of  vision.  Crows 
flew  in  high  black  groups  against  the  sky. 

One  little  town  after  another  flashed  into  view, 
its  straight  wide  main  street  running  at  right  angles 
to  the  railroad.  Farmers'  wagons  and  Ford  cars 
stood  at  the  curbs.  The  red  brick  schoolhouse  and 
one  or  two  squat-spired  churches  asserted  themselves 
above  the  huddle  of  shingled  roofs.  Then  the  town 
disappeared,  to  give  place  presently  to  the  next. 
To  Constance  these  villages  were  dear  and  familiar, 

i 


2  SUPPORT 

not  sordid  or  austere.  She  sighed,  feeling  a  joy  of 
relaxation,  after  the  miseries  of  the  last  months — 
the  bitterness  of  self-pity,  the  humiliation  of  defeat. 

She  gave  herself  up  to  the  traditional  ecstasy  of 
going  home.  The  idealized  scene  before  her  melted 
into  anticipations  still  more  beatific.  She  forgot, 
or  at  least  ignored,  the  irritations  of  the  time  pre- 
ceding her  marriage,  six  years  before;  the  annoy- 
ances and  bickerings  of  her  one  visit  at  home,  two 
years  later.  She  remembered  only  that  she  had  been 
weary  and  hurt  and  desolate,  and  that  now,  close 
at  hand,  was  a  refuge,  where  love  and  welcome  made 
a  place  for  her.  There  she  could  hide  and  make  the 
best  of  what  was  left.  She  thought  with  tenderness 
of  her  mother,  and  with  at  least  tolerance  of  her 
father.  "Poor  Poppy!  Life  hasn't  treated  him  so 
very  well,"  she  reflected.  And  there  was  Rose,  the 
younger  sister,  so  pretty,  so  eager;  a  bit  selfish,  per- 
haps, though  she  had  doubtless  improved  during 
the  last  few  years.  "I  believe  that  Rose  and  I  can 
have  some  happy  times  together,  when  I  get 
adjusted  to  life  in  Blanchard,"  murmured  Constance. 
There  were  ways  in  which  she  could  find  diversion, 
pleasant  activity,  solace  of  a  kind.  It  was  good, 
Constance  told  herself  anew,  that  she  was  not  com- 
ing home  without  money.  An  assured  income  would 
make  everything  easier,  and  temper  the  reproach 
of  her  return. 

"Blanchard  the  next  station,"  called  the  porter,  at 
her  elbow.  "Shall  I  brush  you  off,  Miss?"  Con- 
stance mechanically  submitted  to  be  flicked  on 


SUPPORT  3 

skirt  and  shoulders  by  the  porter's  whisk  broom. 
As  she  stood  in  the  aisle,  she  was  conscious  of  the 
glances  of  the  men  in  the  car.  She  was  tall,  and 
carried  herself  well.  Though  she  knew  herself  not 
so  attractive  as  Rose,  yet  she  could  not  deny  that 
she  shared  the  good  looks  which  ran  in  the  family. 
Constance  Moffatt,  born  Fenton,  was  thirty.  She 
did  not  look  younger,  but  she  was  a  pleasing  picture 
of  maturity  and  sophistication  in  her  tailored  suit 
and  smart  hat  from  New  York. 

The  train  was  passing  through  the  outlying  dis- 
tricts of  the  town,  where  a  plow  factory  covered 
gloomy  acres,  and  a  modern  candy  factory  stretched 
itself  along  the  tracks.  Workingmen's  houses  stood 
in  grayish  rows.  The  railroad  yards  came  next,  and 
then  the  train  was  slipping  into  the  new  station, 
where  a  long  concrete  platform  took  the  place  of 
the  wooden  one  which  Constance  remembered. 

In  the  corridor,  she  bent  to  the  window,  looking 
for  some  member  of  her  family.  Rose  would  be 
there,  she  thought.  She  caught  glimpses  of  one  or 
two  girls  who  looked  like  Rose;  yet  in  four  years 
Little  Sister  must  have  changed.  Constance  had 
descended  the  steps  before  she  recognized  her 
sister's  face.  She  heard  a  call,  "Whoo-hoo!"  Rose 
ran  up,  put  her  hands  on  Constance's  shoulders, 
and  gave  her  a  kiss.  In  the  younger  woman's  look 
and  caress  there  was  something  of  pity,  as  for  one 
suffering  from  a  great  physical  distress ;  and  wonder, 
too,  as  for  one  who  has  unaccountably  survived  a 
disaster  which  ought  to  have  been  fatal. 


4  SUPPORT 

The  sisters  stared  at  each  other,  suddenly  self- 
conscious.  An  awkwardness  came  between  them. 
"Dear  Rose,"  murmured  Constance,  standing  back 
to  let  her  eyes  rest  on  the  girl's  bright  cheeks,  the 
sensitive  lips  and  delicate  chin,  outlined  against  the 
bit  of  fur  about  her  throat. 

"Nice  Constance,"  Rose  returned.  "You're  just 
the  same."  Her  surprise  gave  intimation  that  she 
had  expected  to  see  her  sister  bowed  or  disfigured 
with  pain. 

There  were  a  few  moments  devoted  to  the  lug- 
gage, and  the  engaging  of  a  taxicab.  Inside  the  cab, 
Constance  began  inquiring  for  the  family.  "How's 
mother?" 

"Fine,"  was  Rose's  answer.  "She  thought  you 
wouldn't  expect  her  to  come  down." 

"Oh,  no.    And  father?"    Father  always  came  last. 

"About  as  usual.  Says  he  has  a  pain  in  his  back. 
What  a  0ooc?-looking  hat!" 

"Do  you  like  it?"  To  Constance  the  hat,  even  in 
its  smartness,  was  negligible. 

"It's  stunning.  You're  looking  splendidly,  really." 
Again  there  was  a  flavor  of  surprise  in  the  girl's 
tone. 

"Didn't  you  think  I  should  be?" 

"Well — I  didn't  know — after  so  much " 

Rose's  voice  sank  into  uncertainty. 

"I  mean  to  forget  it,"  Constance  brought  out  with 
decision. 

"Of  course."  Rose  looked  uncomfortable,  as  if 
she  were  wondering  how  anyone  could  forget  such  a 


SUPPORT  5 

thing,  any  more  than  one  could  ignore  the  absence 
of  a  severed  limb. 

A  pause  ensued.  Constance  looked  out  of  the 
window,  seeking  a  topic  of  conversation.  "The 
Woodfords  have  been  doing  something  to  their 
house,"  she  remarked. 

"Yes ;  a  new  roof — it  needed  it — and  a  veranda  on 
the  side." 

"It  looks  nice." 

"It  does  look  better.  Our  house  needs  something 
done  to  it."  In  Rose's  forehead  a  line  of  discontent 
was  showing. 

"I  dare  say  it  does."  The  idealization  of  home 
began  to  fade  in  the  mind  of  Constance.  She  nerved 
herself  for  what  she  should  meet.  The  house  had 
been  shabby  when  she  had  last  seen  it.  Now  it 
must  be  considerably  worse.  "The  Woodfords  must 
be  prospering,"  she  forced  herself  to  say. 

"Yes.  Carey  made  a  lot  of  money  during  the 
war." 

The  taxicab  turned  into  a  street  overhung  with 
towering  elms.  Old  cream-colored  brick  houses  were 
set  far  back  among  shrubs  and  green  spaces  of  lawn. 
The  cab  stopped  before  one  of  them,  and  the  two 
women  got  out. 

The  front  lawn  of  the  Fenton  home  was  not  so 
well  kept  as  the  lawns  on  either  side.  The  fence 
and  the  gate  were  almost  destitute  of  paint.  Bright 
salvia  bushes  straggled  about  the  narrow  veranda 
upon  which  French  windows  opened.  Constance 
paid  the  chauffeur,  and  she  and  Rose  went  up  the 


6  SUPPORT 

walk.  The  front  door  opened,  disclosing  a  thin 
elderly  woman,  whose  face  was  still  fine  and  beau- 
tiful. Constance  set  down  her  bag,  and  yielded  to 
her  mother's  embrace.  "My  poor  child!"  The  older 
woman  was  shedding  tears.  The  words  and  the  pity 
which  they  expressed  gave  Constance  a  twinge  of 
distaste,  an  impulse  of  rebellion  against  the  patron- 
age of  sympathy,  even  from  her  mother.  It  was 
gone  again  in  an  instant,  and  she  felt  her  own  tears 
starting.  Her  mother  held  her  off  and  gazed. 
"You're  looking  better  than  I  expected  to  see  you, 
after " 

"I'm  feeling  splendidly,  mother,"  cried  Constance, 
with  forced  cheerfulness.  "In  fact,  I  never  felt 
better." 

"So  brave!"  murmured  Mrs.  Fen  ton.  "My  poor 
child!" 

She  was  prepared  to  weep  again,  but  Constance 
interrupted  her  with,  "Where's  Poppy?" 

"In  the  study,"  Mrs.  Fenton  replied.  "He  had 
such  a  pain  in  his  back  that  he  thought  he  wouldn't 
come  out." 

Rose  had  been  taking  off  her  fur  neckpiece  and 
jacket  at  the  small  mirror  in  the  hatrack.  She  and 
her  mother  followed  Constance  through  the  sitting- 
room  to  the  smaller  room  beyond,  where  old-fash- 
ioned high  glass  bookcases  filled  the  walls. 

An  old  man  with  a  yellowish  gray  beard  was  sit- 
ting in  a  deep  chair,  clutching  at  the  arms  and  lean- 
ing forward.  Constance  ran  to  him  with  an  aimless 
"Hello,  Poppy!  Here  you  are.  Well,  well!"  She 


SUPPORT  7 

bent  and  kissed  him.  He  held  her  hand  in  a  hard 
grasp. 

"Well,  well,"  he  repeated.  "We're  glad  you've 
come  home." 

"Yes,  isn't  it  fine?" 

There  was  a  pause,  a  vacant  interval  when  every- 
body seemed  to  be  trying  to  think  of  something 
to  say. 

"Was  the  train  on  time,  Connie?"  asked  the  old 
man. 

"Yes.    Perhaps  five  minutes  late." 

"It  seemed  quite  a  while  that  Rose  was  gone." 
The  old  man  looked  inquiringly  at  his  younger 
daughter. 

"It  was  only  half  an  hour,  Poppy,"  Rose  remon- 
strated with  irritation. 

"It  seemed  longer  than  that." 

"Well,  it  wasn't.  I  went  right  down  in  the  street- 
car, and  the  train  came  in,  and  we  came  up  in  a 
taxi." 

"It  must  have  been  three-quarters  of  an  hour," 
Mr.  Fenton  persisted. 

Rose  sighed  hopelessly.  The  others  stood  about, 
frowning.  Then  Mrs.  Fenton  said,  "You'll  want  to 
go  up  to  your  room,  Connie.  It's  the  same  one. 
Rose,  you  go  up  with  her,  and  I'll  look  after  the 
dinner." 

They  went  back  into  the  sitting-room.  Constance 
recalled  the  faded  places  in  the  green  wall  paper, 
the  nondescript  color  of  the  carpet,  the  limp  lace 
curtains.  There  were  some  good  pieces  of  old  ma- 


8  SUPPORT 

hogany  mixed  with  cheaper  modern  oak.  "Things 
look  just  the  same,"  said  Constance. 

"Only  worse."  Rose's  nostrils  quivered  with  a 
grimace.  The  sisters  climbed  the  stairs  in  silence. 
In  her  room,  Constance  stood  before  the  glass  to  take 
off  her  hat.  She  drew  a  long  breath.  "Tired?" 
asked  Rose  from  the  doorway. 

"A  little.  I  never  sleep  much  on  the  train."  Con- 
stance drooped  with  a  sense  of  depression.  She  had 
not  realized  how  ugly  and  annoying  things  were 
likely  to  be.  But  here  was  home,  she  reassured  her- 
self. Here  they  loved  her.  She  could  mean  some- 
thing here — begin  over  again.  She  blinked  to  keep 
back  the  tears. 

Rose  did  not  notice.  "This  room  is  stuffy,"  she 
was  saying.  She  walked  across  the  room  to  open  a 
window.  The  catch  was  broken,  and  she  had  to  prop 
the  window  up  with  a  stick  lying  on  the  sill.  "Any- 
thing I  can  do  for  you?"  she  asked. 

Constance  was  taking  off  her  suit  jacket  and  hang- 
ing it  in  the  clothes-closet.  "Not  a  thing,"  she  said 
heartily.  "I'm  dirty  and  hungry.  After  a  wash,  I'll 
be  ready  to  eat." 

"Dinner  will  be  ready  immediately.  I'll  go  down." 
Rose  turned,  and  then  came  back.  "It's  simply  won- 
derful to  have  you  home,  Connie."  Her  tone  sug- 
gested that  perhaps  this  thing  should  be  definitely 
said. 

"Thanks.  It's  great  to  be  here."  When  Rose  was 
gone,  Constance  leaned  her  head  against  the  window 
frame  and  looked  out  upon  the  neglected  garden 


SUPPORT  9 

at  the  side  of  the  house,  where  the  dusk  had  already 
fallen.  "It  is  wonderful,"  she  repeated  aloud,  lest 
a  doubt  creep  in  unawares.  "It  may  be  a  little  hard 
to  get  used  to  things,  after  a  different  sort  of  life; 
but  it's  going  to  be  a  real  comfort  to  be  back  here 
in  Blanchard — at  home — among  my  own  people." 


They  had  dinner  presently  in  the  dismal  dining- 
room,  where  the  dark  "grained"  woodwork  framed 
panels  of  reddish  wall  paper.  A  plate  rail  on  each 
wall  held  a  collection  of  articles:  plates,  vases, 
bowls,  little  framed  pictures. 

Mrs.  Fenton  carved,  anxiously  consulting  each 
one  as  to  preferences.  Mr.  Fenton,  who  had  hobbled 
in  with  repressed  exclamations,  now  sat  tapping  ab- 
stractedly on  the  arm  of  his  chair.  His  hands  were 
yellow  and  shrunken,  and  older  than  his  face.  Rose 
had  lapsed  into  a  silence  which  she  broke  only  with 
evident  effort.  Constance  talked  rapidly  about  her 
trip,  the  new  candy  factory,  the  new  station. 

"Your  train  must  have  been  late,"  Mr.  Fenton 
made  comment,  as  if  the  subject  had  not  been 
broached.  "Rose  was  gone  a  long  time." 

"It  was  only  half  an  hour,"  Rose  reiterated 
wearily. 

"I'm  sure  it  was  three-quarters."  The  old  man 
spoke  with  calm  insistence. 

Constance,  alarmed,  recalled  certain  similar  argu- 
ments from  the  past,  and  remembered  her  father's 
dislike  of  having  his  women  folk  out  of  the  house. 


10  SUPPORT 

She  hastened  to  devise  new  topics  of  conversation. 
"Did  you  make  this  bread,  mother?"  she  asked. 
"It's  awfully  good." 

"No,"  Mrs.  Fenton  made  reply.  "Rose  got  it  at 
the  Woman's  Exchange.  I  tell  her  it's  extravagant, 
but  she  thinks  we  have  enough  to  do." 

"When  you  consider  the  gas  and  the  time  and  the 
work,  it's  cheaper  to  buy  it,"  Rose  expostulated 
hotly. 

"I  haven't  figured  out  whether  it  is  or  not,"  Mrs. 
Fenton  said  in  a  worried  way.  "Of  course  we  have 
to  consider  every  penny." 

Rose  moved  in  her  chair  and  sighed  loudly,  with- 
out more  speech. 

Mrs.  Fenton,  handing  the  currant  jelly,  fixed  an 
inquiring  eye  upon  Constance.  "What  did  you  do 
with  your  preserves  when  you — broke  up?"  she 
asked. 

"I  didn't  have  a  great  deal  left,"  Mrs.  Moffatt 
responded.  "I  didn't  make  a  great  deal  last  fall. 
I  was  too — I  didn't  make  much,  anyhow.  And 
what  I  had  left  I  gave  away  to  the  woman  in  the 
next  apartment,  Mrs.  Beebe.  She  had  been  good 
to  me  in  lots  of  little  ways." 

"It  seems  too  bad  to  give  it  away,"  Mrs.  Fenton 
said.  "But  I  suppose  that  was  best." 

"It  would  have  been  impossible  to  ship  it  on  from 
New  York."  Constance's  mind  was  not  on  her  lost 
preserves.  So  they  had  to  consider  every  penny.  It 
was  a  good  thing  that  she  had  not  come  home  un- 
provided for.  What  she  could  put  in  toward  the 


SUPPORT  11 

family  expenses  would  be  even  more  useful  than  she 
had  supposed. 

She  did  not  know  exactly  what  the  family  income 
was.  Something  came  in,  she  knew,  from  certain 
mortgages  which  her  father  had  bought  in  his  days 
of  prosperity  in  the  insurance  business.  It  was 
almost  a  miracle  that  these  investments  had  sur- 
vived the  decadence  of  the  family  fortunes.  How- 
ever, there  could  not  be  much  coming  in  from  them 
— not  more  than  a  few  hundreds  at  the  most.  Then 
Wilbur,  the  only  son  and  the  eldest  of  the  family, 
sent  home  a  check  every  month.  And  a  well-to-do 
sister  of  Mrs.  Fenton  sent  something  intermittently. 
Altogether,  the  resources  which  could  be  counted 
on  did  not  amount  to  a  great  deal.  Prices  had  been 
terrific;  coal  and  food  and  clothing  and  labor  had 
been  prohibitive,  almost.  Rose  had  been  going  to 
the  State  College,  situated  in  Blanchard,  and  must 
have  a  thousand  demands  upon  her  for  money.  It 
was  a  marvel  how  they  had  got  along.  Constance 
wished  that  she  had  given  them  more.  She  had 
sometimes  sent  things  to  Rose ;  but  Rose  was  fussy, 
and  took  dislikes  to  perfectly  harmless  articles  of 
apparel.  There  was  not  much  satisfaction  in  send- 
ing her  anything.  Perhaps  if  she  could  choose  for 
herself  it  would  be  different. 

Constance  was  roused  by  her  father's  saying  that 
in  Blanchard  she  would  find  things  dull,  miss  the 
New  York  theaters  and  restaurants.  "The  lights — 
the  gaiety,"  he  mumbled,  reaching  for  his  coffee  cup 
with  an  unsteady  hand. 


12  SUPPORT 

"I  haven't  been  to  them  much  lately,"  Constance 
replied.  "Of  course  it's  nice  to  feel  that  they're 
there,  and  you  can  go  at  any  time."  There  would 
be  some  social  life  for  her  in  Blanchard,  she  thought, 
some  stimulus  and  diversion.  She  did  not  conjec- 
ture what  it  would  be  that  could  make  up  to  her 
for  the  lost  amusements  of  New  York. 

Her  mother  brought  in  the  dessert.  There  were 
sliced  peaches  for  Mr.  Fenton.  "He  doesn't  like 
caramel  pudding,"  his  wife  explained. 

Constance  remembered.  There  were  so  many 
things  that  Mr.  Fenton  did  not  like. 


After  dinner  Constance  wiped  the  dishes  for  her 
mother.  "Rose,  you  go  on,"  she  said,  tying  on  an 
apron.  "You  have  your  studying  to  do." 

"Later,"  said  Rose  briefly.  "A  man's  coming  in 
for  a  while." 

"Oh,"  Constance  did  not  ask  any  questions;  but 
she  said  to  her  mother  in  a  low  voice,  "Is  it  any 
man  in  particular?" 

Mrs.  Fenton  hesitated.  "Yes,  it  has  been  for  quite 
a  long  time,"  she  said,  her  fine  brows  contracting. 
"I  didn't  feel  like  writing  you  about  it." 

"Girls  will  be  girls,"  Constance  responded  with 
a  casual  air.  Rose  was  twenty-one.  "They  will 
have  their  train  of  college  boys.  You  remember  that 
I  always  did." 

"He  isn't  one  of  the  college  boys."    Mrs.  Fenton's 


SUPPORT  13 

frown  did  not  relax.  "He's  an  older  man — nearly 
thirty,  I  should  say." 

"An  aged  gentleman."  Constance'laughed.  "Who 
is  he,  anyhow?" 

"His  name  is  Schelling.  His  family  have  moved 
here  since  you  left.  They  aren't  much.  He's  in 
some  garage,  or  automobile  concern — I  don't  know 
exactly  what  his  connection  with  it  is.  Will  you  go 
into  the  parlor  when  he's  here?" 

"No,  not  to-night."  Constance  shrank  from  meet- 
ing strangers.  "I  suppose  he'd  wonder  who  I  am." 

"Perhaps  Rose  has  told  him  about  you.  I  never 
talk  to  him  myself,"  Mrs.  Fenton  replied. 

Constance  stood  with  a  dish-towel  in  her  hand, 
not  conscious  of  what  she  was  doing.  She  was  facing 
the  thought  that  people — even  those  whose  families 
weren't  "much" — would  have  to  be  told  about  her, 
as  if  she  were  queer  or  disabled  or  insane.  Worse 
yet,  there  might  be  an  attempt  to  ignore  her  experi- 
ence, to  carry  it  off  without  explanation,  with 
wretched  awkwardnesses  resulting.  Latent  misgiv- 
ings were  becoming  insistent  in  her  mind.  Perhaps 
she  had  made  a  mistake  to  come  home.  Perhaps 
there  would  have  been  some  other  way.  She  had 
wanted  her  own  people  so  pitifully;  but  she  would 
have  got  over  that  longing  if  she  had  waited,  and 
would  have  found  some  way  of  making  herself  happy 
in  New  York. 

Well,  it  couldn't  be  helped.  She  was  here.  She 
had  broken  up  her  own  home  in  the  city — if  a  city 
apartment  can  ever  be  called  a  home.  She  had 


14  SUPPORT 

come  on  to  Blanchard-in-the-Middle-West.  Her 
trunks  would  come  up  to-morrow.  Other  belongings 
were  arriving  by  express.  Her  bridges  were  burned, 
or  at  least  they  were  smoldering.  She  roused  her- 
self. "There  are  those  old  dishes  that  were  Grandma 
Crane's,"  she  said  with  simulated  enthusiasm.  "I 
had  forgotten  how  pretty  they  were." 

"Yes,  we  use  them  sometimes  when  there's  any- 
one in  for  tea,"  answered  Mrs.  Fenton.  "I  always 
meant  you  to  have  some  of  them.  It's  just  as  well 
now."  Each  woman  knew  that  the  other  was  not 
thinking  about  Grandma  Crane's  dishes.  Constance 
felt  that  her  mother  was  aching  to  ask  her  a  ques- 
tion. At  last  it  came  out.  "Where's  Frank?"  said 
Mrs.  Fenton,  scouring  the  Sheffield  bread-tray. 

"I  don't  quite  know."  Constance's  reply  was 
prompt  and  needlessly  nonchalant.  "He  was  out  at 
White  Plains  or  Scarsdale  during  the  summer — com- 
muting, you  know.  Somebody  I  knew  used  to  see 
him  on  the  train.  I  haven't  seen  him  for  months." 
Her  fingers  were  unsteady  as  she  put  away  the 
tumblers. 

"Nor  heard  from  him?" 

"No.  Only  through  his  lawyer.  I — get  my  allow- 
ance, of  course." 

"I  should  think  you  might."  Mrs.  Fenton  spoke 
sharply.  She  splashed  the  rinsing  water  with  a  reck- 
less hand. 

"It's  very  generous,"  faltered  Constance,  as  if  she 
were  somehow  defending  Frank  from  the  sharpness 
hi  Mrs.  Fenton's  voice. 


SUPPORT  15 

"You  mean,  considering  what  he  earns." 

"Yes,  that's  what  I  mean.  He  has — other  de- 
mands on  him." 

"How  can  you  speak  in  that  way?"  Mrs.  Fenton 
looked  curiously  at  her  daughter. 

How  could  she?  Constance  herself  was  not  quite 
sure.  She  turned  resolutely  from  the  subject  in 
hand.  "How  has  father  been?"  she  asked  abruptly. 

"Just  so-so."  Mrs.  Fenton  took  her  cue  from  Con- 
stance, and  made  no  further  reference  to  Frank  Mof- 
fatt.  "He  complains  a  good  deal.  Of  course,  he's 
getting  old — seventy,  his  last  birthday.  That's 
pretty  old,  you  know." 

"Not  so  horribly  old.  Ever  so  many  men  are 
active  and  useful  at  seventy,"  protested  Constance. 
"He  gave  up  five  or  six  years  ago.  It  seems  strange." 

"Wait  till  you  get  old,  and  then  you'll  see."  Mrs. 
Fenton  spoke  with  almost  passionate  reproach. 

Constance  devoted  herself  to  putting  away  the 
dishes,  and  said  nothing.  A  few  minutes  later  she 
went  into  the  study,  where  her  father  was  sitting. 
He  looked  at  her  over  his  glasses.  "I'm  glad  you're 
going  to  be  here  with  us,"  he  said.  "There's  plenty 
of  room." 

"Yes.  It  will  be  fine  to  be  here  and  to  get  ac- 
quainted with  everyone  over  again,"  Constance 
answered  absently. 

Mr.  Fenton  was  tapping  his  glasses  on  the  pages 
of  his  book.  "Don't  go  out  too  much,"  he  said 
quickly.  "Don't  get  involved.  Stay  at  home  with 
your  family." 


16  SUPPORT 

"Perhaps  I  shall.  Of  course  I'll  be  at  home  a 
great  deal,"  his  daughter  replied.  There  was  no  one 
that  she  really  wanted  to  see,  she  reflected,  except 
Sally  Rath  von,  and  perhaps  one  or  two  others: 
Sally  particularly.  Of  course  she  would  gradually 
get  interested  in  people  again.  Six  years  she  had 
been  away,  with  that  one  break  when  she  was  at 
home  four  years  ago.  Now  she  was  to  be  here  per- 
manently— that  sounded  better  than  forever — and 
she  ought  to  make  a  business  of  forming  associa- 
tions, meeting  old  friends,  seeking  out  new  ones. 
It  would  all  develop  in  due  time. 

She  was  unutterably  weary,  all  at  once.  She 
wanted  to  go  up  to  her  room  and  compose  herself, 
and  rest.  In  the  hall  she  encountered  a  wide-shoul- 
dered man  hanging  up  his  coat,  while  Rose  stood 
with  her  hand  on  the  newel-post.  The  hall  light,  in 
a  red  glass  lantern,  gave  only  a  vague  idea  of  the 
caller.  He  had  a  good  contour,  Constance  thought, 
though  he  was,  in  fact,  too  solid  for  his  height. 
Constance  was  passing  the  two,  with  a  feeling  of 
embarrassment,  but  Rose  detained  her  with  an  ex- 
clamation of  forced  gaiety.  "You  don't  get  by  us 
as  easily  as  that,"  she  cried.  "Constance — Mrs. 
Moffatt — this  is  Mr.  Schelling — Mr.  Herman 
Schelling." 

"With  the  accent  on  the  Herman."  The  man 
spoke  with  an  assurance  almost  aggressive.  It  was 
as  if  he  looked  for  antagonism  and  sought  to  disarm 
it.  He  had  no  real  trace  of  the  German  in  his 
tongue,  though  his  manner  and  speech  lacked  culti- 


SUPPORT  17 

vation.  Constance  made  a  vague  sound  of  acknowl- 
edgment. "You've  just  got  here?"  said  Schelling 
jovially. 

"Yes,  only  this  evening — before  dinner." 

"Before  dinner  is  a  good  time  to  come,"  the  man 
laughed.  Constance  saw  that  his  face  was  wide  and 
red,  though  not  unpleasing. 

"It  surely  is,"  she  answered  in  a  friendly  tone. 
His  voice  was  agreeable,  though  his  jocular  air  might 
easily  become  too  familiar.  On  the  whole,  she  had 
no  basis  of  judgment  for  the  man.  The  fact  that 
he  did  not  please  Mrs.  Fenton  was  not  entirely 
against  him.  He  might  be  good  enough,  in  his  way, 
in  spite  of  that.  Constance  had  an  instinct  to  con- 
demn him  as  not  a  native  American.  Her  associa- 
tions had  been  chiefly  among  the  dwindling  New 
England  stock  which  her  own  family  represented. 
She  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  Rose's  friendships 
would  be  placed  there,  too.  However,  if  this  man 
were  desirable  in  himself,  his  ancestry  might  be  for- 
given. She  wouldn't  be  too  hasty  in  her  estimate 
of  his  value.  Anyhow,  she  was  too  tired  to  bother 
about  him  to-night. 

In  her  room  she  busied  herself  in  putting  away 
the  contents  of  her  suitcase,  and  in  writing  one  or 
two  necessary  notes.  Her  mother  came  in  for  a 
little  while  and  then  left  her,  confessing  to  weari- 
ness. "You  work  too  hard,  mother,"  said  Constance. 
"I'm  glad  I've  come  home  to  help." 

"I  do  work  hard,"  Mrs.  Fenton  answered,  lin- 
gering at  the  threshold.  "But  you  know  I  have  a 


18  SUPPORT 

woman  who  comes  in  and  does  the  heavier  work. 
Wilbur  and  Rose  insisted  on  that." 

"Of  course.  You  should  have.  We  aren't  any  of 
us  used  to  heavy  work,"  Constance  agreed.  "Well, 
I  hope  it  will  be  easier  now.  I  don't  want  you  to 
make  a  slave  of  yourself."  She  was  really  glad  that 
she  had  come  home,  she  told  herself.  With  her 
strength  and  her  allowance  from  Frank,  she  could 
help  in  numberless  ways  to  make  things  at  home 
easier  and  happier  for  them  all. 


CHAPTER  II 


IN  the  morning  there  was  a  good  deal  to  be  done. 
Constance  insisted  on  helping  with  the  housework; 
and  then  her  trunks  came  up,  and  had  to  be  un- 
packed. 

Rose  went  away  before  nine  o'clock,  to  her  classes. 
In  the  study,  Mr.  Fenton  read  the  paper  minutely, 
relentlessly.  Now  and  then  he  gave  a  suppressed 
groan,  audible  to  anyone  who  happened  to  be  in 
the  next  room.  It  made  Constance  wince,  not  so 
much  at  the  implication  of  suffering,  as  at  the  parad- 
ing of  it  before  others — the  immodesty  of  it,  as  it 
were. 

"Is  he  really  ill?"  she  asked  her  mother  in  a  low 
tone. 

"Not  very,"  her  mother  answered.  "The  doctor 
says  it's  nothing  alarming.  I  dare  say  his  back  hurts 
him  a  little.  He  has  a  touch  of  rheumatism  most  of 
the  time." 

"He's  having  a  doctor,  then?" 

"Yes,  quite  often.  It  makes  him  feel  better  to 
have  the  doctor  tell  him  he's  all  right.  I  suppose 
it's  worth  it — but  it  makes  an  awful  expense." 

"Of  course  it  does,"  Constance  assented.  "Do 
you — can  you " 

19 


20  SUPPORT 

Mrs.  Fenton  shook  her  head.  "There's  quite  a 
big  bill  now  that  I  haven't  been  able  to  pay." 

"I'll  pay  it,"  said  Constance  with  promptitude. 

"No — no,  I  don't  want  you  to  do  that,"  cried  Mrs. 
Fenton.  Yet  she  looked  relieved. 

"I'll  see  about  it  in  a  day  or  two.  I  must  start 
an  account  in  the  State  Bank,  so  that  I  won't  have 
to  give  checks  on  a  New  York  bank." 

"It  doesn't  seem  as  if  you  ought  to  pay  that  bill," 
her  mother  reiterated  apologetically,  but  with  no 
conviction. 

"Never  mind.  I  want  to  help  out,"  said  Con- 
stance. "Mother,  how  do  you  get  on — financially,  I 
mean?" 

"It's  been  terribly  hard,"  Mrs.  Fenton  replied  with 
a  worried  look.  "We  don't  have  much.  Wilbur  does 
the  best  he  can  for  us,  but  you  know,  Connie,  he 
doesn't  get  a  very  big  salary,  and  he  has  his  own 
home  to  keep  up." 

"I  know,  mother.  I  think  it's  wonderful  of  him 
to  do  anything."  Constance  felt  somehow  con- 
science-stricken, and  eager  to  do  all  that  she  could, 
now  that  she  had  come  home.  Helping  out  with 
the  family  expenses  would  be  in  a  way  an  atone- 
ment for  the  humiliation  of  her  divorce.  Her  mother 
had  felt  it  keenly,  and  it  was  good  of  her  to  say 
so  little  about  it,  to  accept  her  daughter's  home- 
coming so  much  as  a  matter  of  course.  "I  hope 
things  won't  be  so  hard,  now,"  Constance  said  hope- 
fully. Her  mother  brightened,  knowing  what  she 


SUPPORT  21 

meant.  "I  think  it's  really  marvelous  that  you've 
got  along  at  all." 

"It's  meant  a  lot  of  scrimping  and  planning,"  re- 
plied Mrs.  Fenton.  "And  of  course  most  of  it  has 
come  on  me.  I  hope  you  won't  find  it  too  depress- 
ing, Connie.  You  aren't  used  to  this  sort  of  thing." 

"Oh,  I  think  I'll  be  all  right."  Constance  wished 
to  disclaim  any  evidences  of  depression.  "I  want 
to  see  Sally  Rathvon,  mother — right  away." 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you" — Mrs.  Fenton  bridled  with 

her  news — "Sally  is "  She  gave  a  significant 

nod  and  glance  at  Constance. 

"Oh — is  she?"  Constance  spoke  blankly.  "I 
hadn't  heard  of  it;  she  writes  so  seldom." 

"A  woman  with  a  home  and  children  can't  spend 
her  time  in  writing  letters,"  said  Mrs.  Fenton  with 
a  slight  coolness  of  reproval  for  a  woman  who  had 
no  home  and  no  children. 

Constance,  adjusting  the  bit  of  news  in  relation 
to  Sally,  felt,  in  an  undefined  way,  vexed  and 
cheated.  She  had  counted,  as  she  now  discerned, 
on  seeing  a  good  deal  of  Mrs.  Rathvon — on  making 
her  a  companion  and  confidante.  She  and  Sally  had 
been  such  good  friends  in  the  old  days,  before  either 
of  them  was  married.  Now  here  was  an  unexpected 
intrusion.  Sally  would  not  be  quite  the  same — 
would  be  preoccupied,  "not  going  out."  It  was  an- 
noying, to  say  the  least.  "Of  course  it's  not  my 
affair,"  Constance  said  to  herself.  "And  Sally  is 
Sally,  in  spite  of  everything." 

But  she  remembered  that  she  had  heard  the  un- 


22  SUPPORT 

married  complain  that  those  who  are  married  and 
absorbed  in  the  details  of  family  life  are  never  the 
same  to  their  old  friends.  She  herself  had  smiled 
at  such  remarks,  in  a  superior  way,  or  had  weakly 
protested;  now  she  had  to  admit  that  there  was 
something  in  them.  She  saw  that  she  could  only 
make  the  most  of  Sally,  take  what  her  former  friend 
had  to  give,  not  expect  too  much,  not  reach  out 
and  snatch  and  cling  and  strangle.  She  must  guard 
against  being  a  bore.  Injured  wives  were  likely  to 
be  a  horrid  nuisance.  She  remembered  one,  a  Mrs. 
Sawyer,  who  used  to  come  to  her  apartment  in 
Yonkers  and  tell  the  story  of  her  woes  over  and 
over  until  her  unwilling  listener  was  ready  to  scream. 

The  thoughts  of  Constance  had  wandered  so  far 
that  it  was  with  an  instant's  bewilderment  that  she 
heard  Mrs.  Fenton  saying,  "You  know  Sally  has 
two  already." 

"Yes,"  Constance  answered ;  "the  little  boy  Owen 
was  born  about  three  years  ago,  wasn't  he?  It  was 
the  first  year  we  were  in  New  York,  I  think,  after 
we  left  Yonkers."  Two  children — a  girl  and  a  boy; 
that  would  seem  to  be  enough.  It  was  too  bad  that 
Sally  had  to  have  another. 


Rose  came  home  to  lunch,  and  hurried  away  again. 
Constance  went  out  later,  to  order  groceries  and 
other  supplies  for  the  house.  She  took  satisfaction 
in  ordering  a  great  deal  and  in  adding  a  few  lux- 


SUPPORT  23 

uries  for  her  father.  "He  always  wants  something 
different  from  what's  on  the  table,"  she  said  to 
herself. 

She  came  back,  glad  that  she  had  not  met  anyone 
that  she  knew.  In  the  yard  she  stopped  to  pick 
some  late  flowers,  and  to  take  a  look  at  the  house. 
She  was  troubled  to  note  the  sagging  verandas, 
shabby  for  want  of  paint,  the  discolored  and  broken 
fretwork  about  the  eaves  of  the  gabled  brick  wings- 
"It  needs  a  lot  of  improving,"  she  admitted;  "but 
I  can't  see  that  I'm  called  upon  to  do  it." 

"Sally  telephoned  while  you  were  out,"  her  mother 
announced.  "She's  coming  over  about  four." 

"Good !  We'll  have  tea."  Constance  went  to  take 
off  her  wraps,  her  heart  beating  faster  with  antici- 
pation. Sally  had  meant  so  much  to  her — more 
than  anyone  else,  almost.  Just  after  her  graduation 
from  college,  Sally  Needham  had  "caught"  young 
Professor  Rathvon,  of  the  Psychology  Department; 
and  now  she  had  been  married  seven  years — longer 
than  Constance.  Sally's  letters  had  been  scarce  and 
intermittent;  she  had  been  busy  with  the  affairs  of 
her  house.  Constance  knew  little  of  her  present  life 
and  thought.  Sally  Needham  had  been  "strong  for 
women,"  had  belonged  to  suffrage  leagues  and  things 
of  that  sort.  It  would  be  interesting  to  see  how 
she  had  developed.  Constance  wondered  what  her 
attitude  would  be  toward  her  old  friend  whose  mar- 
ried life  had  turned  out  so  disastrously.  She  did 
not  have  much  fear.  Sally  was  liberal-minded,  and 
had  some  sense.  The  very  fact  that  she  was  coming 


24  SUPPORT 

over  so  soon  proved  that.  Constance  hummed  a 
tune  as  she  got  out  the  tea  things  and  spread  the 
little  table  in  the  sitting-room. 

Sally  came  in,  glowing,  her  plump  pink  and  white 
face  unaffectedly  radiant  with  joy  at  meeting  Con- 
stance. She  had  always  had  a  fresh,  kind,  sympa- 
thetic way  with  her;  it  had  become  more  gracious 
with  experience  and  maturity.  "Connie,  dear !  How 
glad  I  am  to  see  you!"  The  words  were  balm  to  the 
heart  of  her  friend. 

"Sally,  I'm  so  happy  that  you've  come!"  Con- 
stance put  her  arm  around  Mrs.  Rathvon  and  led 
her  into  the  room  at  the  right  of  the  hall.  Mrs. 
Fenton  entered  from  the  dining-room,  and  there  was 
a  shower  of  feminine  talk  about  Blanchard,  the  fall 
weather,  Sally's  two  children,  Mr.  Fenton's  rheu- 
matism, Grandma  Crane's  dishes,  Constance's  fine 
handmade  serviettes. 

Not  until  the  call  was  almost  over  was  anything 
said  directly  relating  to  Constance.  "I  don't  know 
how  Connie'll  make  out,  now  that  she's  come  back," 
said  Mrs.  Fenton  doubtfully. 

"She'll  get  on,"  said  Sally  quickly.  "She'll  find 
some  old  friends  and  make  some  new  ones." 

"I  don't  care  much  for  mere  social  acquaintances," 
Constance  asserted.  "It's  difficult  to  make  any 
plans.  I  hope  I  sha'n't  find  things  too  hard." 

Her  stifled  misgivings  showed  themselves  in  her 
voice. 

"Nonsense !  You'll  be  all  right,"  Sally  made  haste 
to  say.  "I  want  to  have  you  over  as  much  as  I  can 


SUPPORT  25 

— I  mean,  as  much  as  you  can  come,"  she  supple- 
mented rather  lamely.  "Of  course,  I'm  not  going 

out  much "  Constance  nodded.  "But  you  must 

come  over  often,  of  course.  You  may  not  be  crazy 
to  come.  Our  house  isn't  the  calmest  place  in  the 
world,  with  two  children  ranting  about.  I  haven't 
much  to  offer  you " 

There  was  a  vagueness,  an  incoherence,  about 
Sally's  manner  which  faintly  troubled  Constance. 
"Doesn't  she  really  want  me?"  she  asked  herself. 
"Of  course  she  does.  Perhaps  it's  her  Griffith." 
Constance  had  not  seen  much  of  Griffith  Rathvon 
since  her  own  marriage,  and  she  had  never  liked  him 
very  well. 

When  Sally  had  gone,  she  cleared  away  the  tea 
things,  thoughtfully.  Her  mother  was  absent- 
mindedly  straightening  the  articles  on  the  mantel. 
"I  imagine  that  Professor  Rathvon  keeps  a  pretty 
tight  hold  on  Sally,"  Mrs.  Fenton  said  with  a  show 
of  hesitation.  "He  doesn't  like  her  mixing  up  with 
outside  people  and  affairs.  She's  dropped  all  her 
clubs  except  the  D.  A.  R.  I  see  her  there  some- 
times." 

"She's  busy,  of  course."  Constance  did  not  want 
to  be  ungenerous. 

"Yes,  she's  very  fond  of  her  family.    But  after 

oil " 

BU 

Mr.  Fenton  had  stayed  in  the  study  during  Sally's 
call.  Now  he  began  roaming  restlessly  about  the 
house.  "It's  time  Rose  came  home,"  he  muttered 
now  and  again. 


26  SUPPORT 

"Oh,  no,  father,"  Constance  explained,  "I  heard 
her  say  she  had  a  class  at  four." 

"At  four?  Why,  she  didn't  have  one  at  that  time 
yesterday,"  the  old  man  answered  irritably. 

"No,  but  she  has  to-day — a  two-hour  session.  It 
comes  only  once  a  week.  It's  a  seminar,  or  some- 
thing." 

"They  shouldn't  put  classes  at  such  hours,"  re- 
turned the  old  man,  with  a  fretful  scowl.  "She  ought 
to  be  at  home  in  the  afternoon,  giving  some  atten- 
tion to  her  family.  It  seems  as  if  her  father  and 
mother  had  become  a  secondary  consideration;  en- 
tirely a  secondary  consideration." 

"College  takes  a  lot  of  time."  Constance  tried  to 
be  conciliatory. 

"It  shouldn't  take  a  girl  away  from  her  home  so 
much." 

"She  won't  be  long  now,"  said  Constance.  "Don't 
you  want  to  take  a  walk,  father?  It's  really  a  glo- 
rious day." 

"No,  no!    I  don't  want  to  go  out." 

"Then  don't  you  want  to  pick  the  grapes,  father?" 
the  woman  coaxed.  "There  are  quite  a  lot  on  the 
arbor.  I  can  make  some  jelly." 

"No,  I  don't  feel  well  enough."  The  old  man 
put  his  hand  to  his  back.  "I  wish  Rose  would  come 
home." 

Constance,  vexed  and  downcast,  went  out  to  pick 
the  grapes,  in  the  .soft,  cool  dusk.  She  could  not 
feel  gloomy  for  long,  because  the  ripe  clusters  were 
so  smooth  to  her  hand,  and  the  sky  was  so  dark 


SUPPORT  27 

and  far,  between  the  yellow  leaves.  She  found 
herself  humming  again.  It  was  a  glorious  day, 
though  nearly  ended,  and  she  was  glad  to  be  back 
in  Blanchard,  picking  grapes  and  kissing  Sally  Rath- 
von — in  spite  of  everything. 

When  she  went  back  to  the  house,  she  found  her 
mother  parleying  at  the  side  door  with  a  workman 
of  some  sort.  "What  is  it,  mother?"  she  asked. 

"The  man  has  come  with  a  chair  I  sent  to  be 
mended,"  answered  Mrs.  Fenton.  "He's  asking  so 
much  for  it — it  seems  too  bad." 

"How  much  is  it?" 

Her  mother  named  a  figure  which  seemed  exor- 
bitant. "I'll  pay  it.  Don't  bother,"  said  Constance. 

"Well,  I'll  let  you  have  it  again,  out  of  the  house- 
keeping money,"  Mrs.  Fenton  parried. 

"No,  never  mind.  I  don't  want  it."  Constance 
paid  for  the  chair.  "Such  an  awful  price  for  such 
an  ugly  old  thing,"  she  thought.  "But  I  don't  see 
what  else  I  could  do.  I'll  have  to  get  used  to  epi- 
sodes of  this  kind.  I  suppose  that's  what  my  money 
is  for,  and  it  certainly  is  a  comfort  that  I  have  some." 

Rose  was  moody  at  dinner,  and  then  suddenly  ani- 
mated. She  told  some  anecdotes  of  the  classroom, 
laughed  a  good  deal,  and  sang  snatches  of  a  French 
song.  When  she  and  Constance  were  alone  in  the 
dining-room,  Constance  said,  "Rose,  tell  me  about 
your  man.  Is  he  very  nice?" 

"Oh,  he's  pretty  fair."  Rose's  cheek  showed  a 
self-conscious  flush,  which  she  turned  away  to  hide. 

"He's  not  a  college  man,  is  he?" 


28  SUPPORT 

"No,"  said  Rose.  "He  went  two  years  to  the 
State  College,  but  he  isn't  a  high-brow.  He  doesn't 
go  in  for  the  intellectual." 

"What  sort  of  work  does  he  do?"  Constance  took 
a  grape  from  the  silver  fruit  basket  on  the  side- 
board, watching  Rose  with  the  turn  of  her  eye. 

"He's  in  a  sort  of  automobile  business."  Rose 
spoke  vaguely  and  with  a  degree  of  unwillingness. 

"Does  he  take  you  around  a  lot?" 

Rose  looked  uncomfortable.  "Not  a  great  deal — 
except  in  his  car,"  she  said  reluctantly.  "It's  just 
as  well,"  she  went  on  in  a  constrained  voice.  "I 
don't  have  much  to  wear,  you  know.  I  couldn't  go 
with  the  kind  of  set  I  wanted  to  go  with.  I  refused 
a  sorority,  I  think  I  told  you,  because  I  didn't  have 
any  money." 

Constance  cringed.  She  wanted  Rose  to  have  a 
good  time,  to  go  with  the  right  people,  to  make  a 
satisfactory  marriage  if  she  made  any.  But  of  course 
a  girl  had  to  have  good  clothes  and  money  to  spend. 
"I'm  sorry,"  she  faltered. 

"You  must  meet  Herman  again  sometime,"  said 
Rose  carelessly. 

"Yes,  I'd  like  to."  Constance  was  wondering  what 
the  situation  really  was.  If  Rose  had  said  more  it 
would  have  meant  less. 


ON  Saturday,  Wilbur  "ran  down"  from  Caryville, 
thirty  miles  away,  where  he  was  the  Superintendent 
of  Schools.  He  came  partly  to  see  Constance  and 
partly  to  order  some  supplies  for  his  grade  schools, 
and  to  consult  somebody  in  the  Education  Depart- 
ment at  the  College  about  a  weighty  matter  of  school 
discipline. 

Wilbur  was  handsome  hi  an  undistinguished  way. 
He  had  good  features,  adorning  a  face  perhaps  too 
long.  His  shoulders  stooped  with  a  deceptive  sug- 
gestion of  languor.  His  hair  had  a  way  of  fringing 
his  ears,  because  he  was  negligent  about  having  it 
clipped.  Constance  and  Wilbur  had  never  got  along 
together,  as  the  family  said.  And  yet  Wilbur  was  a 
fairly  good  sort,  Constance  admitted.  He  sent  money 
home,  when  doing  so  meant  a  considerable  sacrifice. 
He  had  never  given  his  parents  any  cause  for  anxiety 
as  to  his  behavior.  He  had  worked  hard  at  the  State 
College,  for  he  was  not  brilliant,  had  acquitted  him- 
self creditably,  and  had  forthwith  accepted  a  posi- 
tion to  teach  mathematics  in  the  high  school  in  a 
neighboring  town.  When  he  had  been  promoted  to 
the  principalship  of  the  high  school,  he  had  mar- 
ried. He  had  since  become  the  Superintendent  of 

29 


30  SUPPORT 

Schools  in  a  town  nearer  home.  There  were  no 
children — he  couldn't  afford  any,  Wilbur  made  it 
known,  as  long  as  he  had  to  give  up  a  large  fraction 
of  his  earnings  for  the  support  of  his  father  and 
mother. 

He  greeted  Constance  warmly  enough,  after  their 
separation  of  four  years.  She  inquired  for  Eleanor, 
exclaiming  sympathetically  at  the  report  of  her  fra- 
gility of  constitution  and  susceptibility  to  colds. 
Then  the  family  conversation  became  general,  and 
Constance  found  tasks  which  demanded  her  at- 
tention. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  Wilbur  fol- 
lowed her  into  the  study,  where  she  had  gone  in 
search  of  the  morning  paper.  Mr.  Fenton  was  in 
the  sitting-room  with  Rose.  "Well,  Con,"  Wilbur 
began,  sitting  sidewise  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  "so 
you  thought  you'd  come  home,  did  you?" 

"Yes,"  Constance  explained.  "It  seemed  too  bad 
to  be  keeping  up  an  expensive  apartment  for  my- 
self, and  I — I  wanted  to  come  home."  It  was  hard 
to  set  forth  one's  motives  for  Wilbur. 

"A  very  good  idea,"  her  brother  conceded,  "as  long 
as  things  were — as  they  were.  You  find  conditions 
here  rather  different  from  what  they  used  to  be 
— €h?" 

"Somewhat."  Constance  spoke  thoughtfully,  "I 
hadn't  realized  that  our  circumstances  were  so 
limited." 

"What  do  you  think?"  inquired  Wilbur  with  a 
notably  tolerant  air.  "Did  you  imagine  that  money 


SUPPORT  31 

grew  on  trees,  or  that  groceries  were  given  away, 
out  here  in  the  woolly  West?" 

"Of  course  not,  but "  Constance  hardly  knew 

what  to  say.  There  was  a  pause. 

Wilbur  took  up  a  paper-weight,  and  turned  it 
over  in  his  long  fingers.  "H-m,  I  was  sorry,"  he 
said,  "when  I  heard  that  you'd  made  a  mess  of  things 
with  Frank." 

Constance  felt  a  sinking  at  her  heart.  In  the  two 
days  that  she  had  been  at  home,  no  one  had  openly 
condemned  her,  or  even  pointedly  referred  to  her 
divorce.  "I  don't  know  why  you  should  assume 
that  I  made  all  the  trouble."  Her  spirit  rose,  but 
she  tried  to  keep  the  resentment  out  of  her  voice. 

"The  women  usually  do,"  Wilbur  returned  with  a 
disagreeable  laugh.  He  was  expressing  himself  with 
humor,  yet  he  meant  what  he  said. 

"I  don't  think  most  people  would  grant  that." 
Constance  was  unable  to  answer  him  dispassionately, 
as  she  knew  she  ought. 

"A  good  many  would.  I  thought  Frank  was  a 
mighty  nice  fellow — what  little  I  saw  of  him,"  re- 
sponded Wilbur. 

"He  is  a  nice  fellow,  in  more  ways  than  one." 
Constance  was  folding  and  unfolding  the  news- 
paper. 

"I  argue,"  said  Wilbur,  tapping  the  paper-weight 
on  the  table  to  emphasize  his  remarks,  "that  when  a 
well-meaning  chap  like  Frank  takes  to  doing  things 
that  aren't — er — quite  desirable,  there  must  be  some 
reason.  Ten  chances  to  one,  his  wife  is  to  blame." 


32  SUPPORT 

"Why,  Wilbur,  how  unfair!"  Constance  began  in- 
dignantly. 

Her  brother  was  going  on.  "I  don't  mean  to  say 
anything  against  you,  Con.  I  know  you're  all  right, 
and  I  like  you  a  lot,  you  know;  but  as  I  was  just 
saying,  I  feel  that  you've  muddled  things  fright- 
fully. You'll  have  to  admit  it  yourself." 

"I'll  admit  that  things  are — or  were — muddled." 
Constance  did  not  permit  the  quiver  in  her  throat 
to  get  into  her  voice.  "But  I  won't  say  that  I  was 
the  only  one  that  made  the  trouble.  I  may  .have 
been  to  blame  in  some  ways.  I'm  not  perfect,  of 
course." 

"When  a  woman  says  that,  she  means  she  is." 
Wilbur  laughed  again,  in  good-natured  tolerance  for 
a  weaker  sex. 

Constance  began  shaking  and  stammering.  "The 
injustice" —  she  blurted  out — "the  shameful  injus- 
tice, judging  when  you  don't  know  anything  about 
it — your  own  sister,  too!" 

The  man  defended  himself.  "I  don't  suppose  that 
my  own  sister  is  any  different  from  any  other  woman. 
I  only  said  that  in  affairs  of  this  kind  the  woman  is 
usually  either  directly  or  indirectly  to  blame.  Al- 
most anyone  will  bear  me  out  in  that." 

Constance  had  a  cold  feeling  at  her  heart.  She 
saw  the  futility  of  trying  to  argue.  She  cared  but 
little,  on  the  whole,  for  Wilbur  or  his  opinion,  but  she 
felt  it  unjust  and  cruel  that  he  should  be  so  hard 
upon  her,  and  so  lenient  with  Frank.  Wilbur  really 
didn't  know  anything  about  the  situation  at  all. 


SUPPORT  33 

Nobody  could  know  except  Frank  and  herself.  She 
stood  twisting  the  newspaper  between  tremulous 
hands. 

Wilbur  was  continuing.  "It's  a  good  thing,  any- 
how," he  stated  judicially,  that  you've  got  something 
to  live  on.  I  don't  know  what  in  time  we'd  do  if 
you  hadn't." 

"I  could  go  to  work,"  said  Constance.  She  had 
never  considered  how  it  would  seem  to  be  supported 
by  Wilbur. 

"Maybe  you  could,"  was  the  cool  answer.  "Jobs 
aren't  any  too  numerous  now.  But  you  don't  have 
to.  You  have  a  good  solid  sum  coming  in  every 
month,  without  turning  your  hand  to  get  it.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  you  could  help  out  a  little  here." 
Wilbur  eyed  her  narrowly,  as-if  judging  the  extent  of 
her  generosity. 

"I'll  do  what  I  can."  Constance  would  not  say 
more. 

"I  think  you'd  better."  The  brother  assumed  an 
advisory  tone.  "It  might  make  up  to  the  old  folks, 
in  a  kind  of  way,  for  the — the  disappointment  that 
they've  gone  through.  Eleanor  says  that  there's 
never  been  a  divorce  in  her  family,  and  it  seems 
queer  to  her  to  be  married  to  a  divorce,  as  you  might 
say.  Eleanor's  unnecessarily  fussy  about  those 
things,  I  suppose.  She  sort  of  thinks  it's  a  point  of 
honor  not  to  give  anybody  any  cause  for  criticism." 

"People  don't  always  wait  for  a  cause,"  said  Con- 
stance miserably. 

"That's  true.    But  if  there  is  one,  it's  all  the  worse. 


34  SUPPORT 

All  this  comes  awfully  hard  on  Eleanor,  I  don't  mind 
telling  you,  when  she's  naturally  not  strong." 

Constance  smiled  mischievously  in  spite  of  her 
hurt.  "I  don't  know  what  I  can  do  about  it  now," 
she  said,  "to  soothe  Eleanor's  feelings,  unless  I  go 
and  get  married  again.  Would  that  help  any?" 

Wilbur  stared  at  her  with  hard  blue  eyes.  "Not 
much,  I  guess,"  he  replied  grimly.  Constance  knew 
that  even  in  Wilbur's  mind  there  was  no  suspicion 
of  her  feeling  an  interest  in  "another  man."  "I 
suppose  it's  your  own  lookout,  what  you  do.  Elea- 
nor says  it  isn't.  She  contends  that  one's  duty  is  to 
one's  family,  and  not  to  oneself.  She  says  a  woman 
ought  to  be  willing  to  suffer  everything,  rather  than 
bring  disgrace  on  her  innocent  relatives.  She  says 
that  what's  the  matter  with  a  lot  of  women  nowa- 
days is  that  they're  crazy  over  the  idea  of  being 
free — just  to  sort  of  run  wild,  as  if  they  had  no 
obligations,  and  no  regard  for  the  sacredness  of  their 
vows " 

"Wilbur,  for  heaven's  sake,"  begged  Constance, 
"do  let's  stop  this  sort  of  talk.  I  can't  stand  it." 

"Oh,  well,  if  you're  so  touchy  as  all  that,"  the 
man  glowered,  shifting  himself  from  the  edge  of  the 
table.  "I  don't  see  why  you  need  to  be  so  tempera- 
mental about  it.  Eleanor  says " 

Constance  walked  out  of  the  room,  with  the  news- 
paper twisted  beyond  recognition.  She  had  been 
looking  for  the  church  notices,  with  a  half-hearted 
resolve  to  go  to  church  the  next  morning,  meet  some 
of  the  people  that  she  used  to  know,  and  face  them 


SUPPORT  35 

courageously  at  the  beginning  of  her  new  life. 
"There's  no  use,"  she  thought.  "I  can't  do  it  now. 
I'll  just  stay  away,  and  let  things  work  out  gradu- 
ally." Her  eyes  were  blinded  with  tears  which  she 
resolutely  forced  back. 

Rose  followed  her  out  into  the  hall.  "What  is  it, 
Connie?"  she  asked. 

Constance  stood  quivering.  "Isn't  Wilbur  too 
awful  for  words?"  she  said. 

Rose  laughed.  "He  certainly  is.  I  hope  you 
don't  take  him  seriously." 

"You  can't  help  it  if  he  tortures  you." 

"Don't  be  tortured,"  returned  Rose  cynically. 
"Connie,  for  goodness'  sake,  don't  torture  yourself. 
You  can't  stand  it — we  can't  any  of  us  endure  it." 
There  was  a  protesting  kindness  in  her  voice. 

"I  won't.  I  won't."  Connie  had  had  an  impulse 
to  go  upstairs  and  burst  out  crying.  Now  she  turned 
toward  the  dining-room.  "I'll  set  the  table,"  she 
said.  She  got  out  some  of  the  best  silver  and  linen, 
as  if  in  honor  of  Wilbur's  visit ;  but  they  were  really 
an  indefinite  challenge  to  him.  She  wouldn't  be 
downtrodden  or  insulted  by  Wilbur,  or  by  anyone 
else,  she  told  herself  as  she  straightened  the  stiff 
folds  of  the  cloth. 


Wilbur  went  the  next  noon.  Rose  was  out  with 
Herman  Schelling,  motoring  and  having  lunch. 
Mrs.  Fenton  relapsed  into  a  Sunday  afternon  stu- 


36  SUPPORT 

por.  Mr.  Fenton  went  out  and  dug  around  the'chry- 
santhemums  in  the  side  garden;  his  wife  always 
hated  his  working  in  the  garden  on  Sunday. 

Constance  felt  a  thrill  of  expectation  when  the 
telephone  rang.  Sally  Rathvon  was  on  the  wire. 
"Come  over  for  a  few  minutes,  can't  you?"  she  said. 
"Griffith's  gone  out  with  Gladdums.  Come  in  for 
a  little  while." 

"I'd  love  to."  Constance  discerned  that  she  was 
not  to  stay  after  Griffith  returned.  She  put  on  her 
hat,  and  went  around  the  back  way  to  the  house  by 
the  Lake  where  the  Rathvons  lived. 

Sally  kissed  her  warmly.  She  felt  a  wave  of  the 
old  affection  for  Sally  Needham.  When  they  were 
girls  going  to  the  State  College  together,  Sally  had 
seemed  like  some  higher  and  finer  replica  of  herself. 
"I  can't  get  over  seeing  you  look  so  well,"  said  Sally, 
as  they  sat  down  in  the  little  chintz-hung  sitting- 
room,  where  an  unnecessary  fire  languished  on  the 
hearth. 

"Didn't  you  think  I  should?"  Constance  inquired. 

"I  didn't  know.     One  goes  through  so  much." 

"Oh,  well,  the  worst  was  over  quite  a  while  ago." 
Constance  was  not  quite  sure  that  this  was  true. 

"Just  what  stage  are  you  at  now?"  asked  Sally 
with  her  simple  friendliness.  "I  don't  know  much 
about  that  sort  of  thing." 

"I've  got  my  first  decree."  Constance  spoke  with 
less  constraint  than  she  would  have  thought  possible. 
"In  a  few  months  more,  I'm  to  get  my  second — and 
then  it's  over.  Fini." 


SUPPORT  37 

"So  that's  it?  Well,  it  sounds  easy."  Sally 
laughed  comfortably.  "I'll  make  tea.  Emma's 
out."  She  disappeared  into  the  kitchen,  and  came 
back  with  a  tray.  Her  hair  was  ruffled  around  her 
plump  face.  Her  loose  dark  dress  and  long  lace 
fichu  gave  her  a  matronly  look.  She  began  pouring 
the  tea,  saying  in  her  vivacious  way,  "Mary  Foster 
was  inquiring  about  you  yesterday,  and  she  was 
delighted  to  hear  that  you've  come  home  for  a 
while." 

"For  a  while,"  repeated  Constance.  "Did  she — 
know?" 

"I  don't  think  so."  Sally  handed  her  guest  a 
cup  of  tea.  "She's  been  away  in  Minneapolis  for 
ever  so  long.  But  does  it  make  any  difference,  Con- 
nie? They've  all  got  to  know  sometime." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  the  other.  "It's  just  that  I'm 
sensitive  at  first." 

"Why  sensitive?"  Sally  was  calmly  drinking  tea. 
"You  haven't  done  anything." 

"I  know.  But  it  makes  you  feel  queer — to  think 
that  people  are  talking." 

"People  are  always  talking." 

"Yes,  but  not  about  me." 

"You  might  as  well  take  your  turn  at  it.  There 
isn't  anything  to  say,  anyhow — just  that  you've 
come  home." 

"They  always  wonder  who  was  to  blame,"  brooded 
Constance,  "and  they  always  think  you  must  be. 
The  sympathy  is  always  with  the  man." 

"Not  always." 


38  SUPPORT 

"Pretty  nearly  always.  I  don't  know  that  I'd  have 
come  home  if  I  had  realized  how  it  would  be.  I  just 
kept  thinking,"  Constance  explained  herself,  "how 

good  it  would  seem  to  be  at  home  again "  Her 

voice  shook. 

"Yes."  Sally  frowned  meditatively  into  her  cup. 
"It  is  great  to  get  home."  She  did  not  meet  her 
friend's  eyes.  Connie  wondered  whether  Sally  were 
thinking  something  satirical  about  the  Fenton  home. 
But  Sally  was  not  likely  to  be  satirical.  "See  here, 
dear," — Mrs.  Rath  von  roused  herself  to  admonish 
her  visitor — "you've  got  to  stop  conjecturing,  and 
just  lead  a  natural  life,  as  you  would  under  any  other 
circumstances." 

"I  know  it.  Natural — not  self-conscious." 
Constance  drank  her  tea,  now  getting  cold.  "I'll 
have  to  have  some  sense,  I  can  see  that." 

"You  ought  to  thank  your  stars  that  you  have 
some  financial  backing — that  you  don't  come  home 
penniless,  as  a  lot  of  women  do.  Your  mother  told 
me "  Sally  looked  speculatively  at  the  prosper- 
ous-appearing woman  on  the  sofa,  with  her  healthy 
color  and  clear  gray  eyes. 

"Yes,  yes,  it's  a  comfort.  I'm  not  badly  situated," 
said  Constance  hastily. 

Sally  was  about  to  say  something  more,  but  at 
that  moment  the  front  door  was  heard  to  open  and 
shut,  a  man's  step  and  a  child's  voice  resounded 
in  the  hall,  and  Professor  Rathvon  came  in,  followed 
by  the  six-year-old  girl,  Gladys.  Sally  stared  not 
too  cordially  at  the  small  dark  man  who  was  her  hus- 


SUPPORT  39 

band.  "Why,  Grif,"  she  said,  "I  thought  you  were 
going  to  take  Gladdums  for  a  long  walk!" 

"I'm  sorry,  dear,"  the  professor  explained; 
"Gladdums  broke  her — er — stocking  supporter — her 
'lastic,  as  she  calls  it — and  we  had  to  come  home." 

"Gladdums,  what  in  the  world?"  Mrs.  Rath  von 
surveyed  her  daughter  with  tolerant  annoyance. 

"Well,  moth-er,  it  just  broke  right  in  two,  and 
fath-er  pinned  it  up,  and  the  pin  kept  sticking  me." 

Professor  Rathvon,  after  a  perceptible  hesitation, 
stepped  forward  and  shook  hands  with  Constance. 
She  felt  the  blood  mounting  to  her  face.  "How  do 
you  do,  Mrs.  Moffatt?"  he  said.  "I  heard  you  were 
in  town." 

"I've  been  at  home  for  several  days."  Constance 
strove  to  show  that  she  was  at  her  ease. 

"You're  looking  well."  The  voice  of  Rathvon 
gave  a  hint  of  the  surprise  with  which  everyone 
made  the  same  remark.  Constance  felt  that  he 
would  have  taken  a  secret  satisfaction  in  seeing  her 
with  white  face  and  hollow  eyes. 

"Will  you  have  tea,  Grif?"  Mrs.  Rathvon  looked 
up  from  her  struggle  with  a  safety-pin  and  the 
broken  'lastic.  "We  didn't  expect  you,  you  know. 
You'll  have  to  get  yourself  a  cup." 

Rathvon  went  to  the  dining-room,  and  Constance 
seized  the  opportunity  to  say,  "I'd  better  be  going, 
Sally." 

"Don't  hurry.  You  haven't  been  here  a  minute," 
Sally  remonstrated.  Yet  there  was  a  look  in  her 
eyes  which  did.  not  serve  to  detain  her  friend. 


40  SUPPORT 

"You're  not  going?"  Rathvon  had  come  back  with 
his  cup  and  saucer.  His  voice  politely  covered 
relief. 

"I  think  I  must.  Father  doesn't  like  us  all  to  be 
out  on  Sunday  afternoon."  Constance  lingered,  not 
to  make  her  departure  coincide  too  pointedly  with 
Rath  von 's  return. 

"Oh,  moth-er!"  Gladdums,  her  round  cheeks  red 
with  the  excitement  of  recollection,  was  pulling  at 
her  mother's  sleeve.  "The  big  dog  over  on  the  street 
smiled  at  me  through  the  fence.  Look.  He  smiled 
just  like  this."  She  half  opened  her  mouth,  pulling 
her  lips  back  over  her  teeth,  her  eyes  staring  with 
the  exertion.  Constance  felt  her  throat  tighten. 
The  child  was  adorable.  It  would  be  delightful  to 
kneel  and  clasp  the  solid  little  body  in  one's  arms 
and  hold  it  close. 

Sally  glanced  at  the  youngster  with  an  amused  air, 
as  of  one  to  whom  such  delicious  antics  were  an  old 
story.  "Yes,  darling,  he's  a  funny  dog,  isn't  he?" 
she  said  absently.  "Did  you  hear  how  Mr.  Starrett 
is  to-day,  Grif?"  She  was  pouring  out  tea  for  her 
husband,  mechanically  adding  the  amount  of  cream 
and  sugar  which  she  knew  he  liked. 

"Why,  Collier  said  he  heard  he  was  better,"  Rath- 
von answered.  "I  didn't  hear  directly." 

"I  suppose  he  is,  then.  I  thought  your  father 
would  be  interested,"  Sally  said  to  Constance.  Her 
eyes  said,  "Won't  you  go?" 

Constance  moved  toward  the  door.  "Here, 
Chubby,"  Rathvon  was  saying,  "come  and  sit  on 


SUPPORT  41 

my  lap  and  have  some  biscuits."  He  took  the  child 
on  his  lap  beside  the  tea-table.  He  did  not  have 
to  rise  to  say  good-by  to  the  caller. 

Constance  went  away  with  a  constriction  in  her 
throat,  so  tense  that  it  seemed  to  stop  her  breathing. 
Sally  followed  her  to  the  door,  but  did  not  linger. 
Constance  knew  that  Sally  was  turning  back  to  the 
solidarity  of  the  group  before  her  hearth — a  compact 
unit  from  which  outsiders  were  excluded.  As  she 
walked  home,  there  was  an  unbearable  hurt  some- 
where within  her,  almost  physical  in  its  reality. 
"I  thought  I  had  gone  through  the  worst,"  she  cried, 
"but  there's  always  something  else — some  new  way 
of  suffering.  I  didn't  believe  I  could  ever  lose  Sally, 
no  matter  what  happened."  She  struggled  for  self- 
control,  lest  people  on  the  street  should  note  her 
anguished  face.  "Oh,  well!"  she  drew  a  long  breath. 
"I  can  bear  it.  I  can  bear  anything  now,  I  think." 


When  she  got  back,  her  father  was  hi  the  sitting- 
room.  "You've  been  out  a  long  time,  Connie,"  he 
said,  laying  down  his  book  from  the  public  library. 
It  was  Stewart  Edward  White's  "The  Cabin."  Mr. 
Fenton  had  been  a  keen  camper  and  hunter  in  his 
day. 

"Not  so  very  long,  father,"  she  answered.  "I  was 
just  over,  seeing  Sally  Rathvon."  The  ache  of  self- 
pity  was  not  yet  gone,  and  she  could  with  difficulty 
control  her  speaking. 


42  SUPPORT 

"It's  strange  how  women  always  want  to  be  out 
of  the  house."  The  old  man  was  in  a  querulous 
mood. 

Constance  could  have  brought  out  some  harsh 
speech,  about  the  disagreeable  men  in  a  house,  who 
drive  the  women  out  of  it;  but  she  merely  said, 
"Not  so  strange,  considering  the  wonderful  weather. 
You  ought  to  have  gone  for  a  walk  this  afternoon, 
father.  It's  too  nice  to  stay  in." 

"While  I  have  a  home,  I  prefer  to  stay  in  it,"  the 
old  man  answered  with  dignity.  "I  may  not  al- 
ways have  one." 

"Why,  father!  what  a  remark!"  Constance  stared 
as  she  took  off  her  hat. 

"I  don't  know  that  it's  so  peculiar.  Things  like 
that  have  happened.  But  there's  always  the  poor- 
house,"  the  old  man  went  on.  "I've  paid  taxes  many 
a  year,  and  now  I  have  a  right  to  expect  shelter." 

"Father!  what  nonsense!  You  don't  need  to  talk 
like  that.  You'll  always  have  a  home." 

"I'm  not  so  sure." 

"Pooh!"  Constance  saw  that  her  father  was 
working  on  her  sympathy.  "I  guess  the  lot  of  us 
can  keep  things  together." 

Mr.  Fenton  shook  his  head.  "Wilbur  has  his  own 
interests,  and  he  needs  what  he  earns.  Rose  will 
be  marrying  before  she  earns  anything,  and  you'll 
be  marrying  again." 

"Don't."  Constance  turned  away.  She  forgot 
to  tell  her  father  about  Mr.  Starrett.  She  did  not 
even  dwell  on  what  the  old  man  had  said.  She 


SUPPORT  43 

put  it  away  from  her  as  too  preposterous.  As  she 
entered  her  room,  she  thought  about  Sally  Rathvon's 
home  (that  was  better  than  thinking  about  Sally). 
How  delightful  it  was,  without  the  elegance  of  great 
expenditure!  Its  chintzes  and  prints  and  books 
gave  it  charm.  She  thought  of  her  own  attractive 
flat  in  Morningside  Heights.  Each  thing  in  it  had 
meant  something  to  her,  had  represented  a  discretion 
of  choice,  a  sincerity  of  affection.  "I  must  do  some- 
thing to  this  room/'  she  said,  and  sat  down,  bowing 
her  head  upon  her  hands. 


After  supper,  she  slipped  out  at  the  side  door,  and 
stood  looking  off  beyond  the  strip  of  garden  to  the 
shadows  of  the  elm  branches  against  the  arc  lights. 
She  had  put  on  her  hat,  with  an  undefined  notion  of 
getting  away  for  a  walk  by  herself.  She  went  softly 
down  the  walk,  and  out  at  the  gate.  It  was  a  moon- 
less evening,  crisp  with  a  suggestion  of  hoar  frost 
before  morning,  but  not  unpleasantly  cold. 

Constance  walked  on,  her  thoughts  inchoate.  She 
had  been  at  home  three  or  four  days  now,  and  was 
making  the  beginning  of  her  adjustment.  It  had 
been  hard  in  some  ways.  It  would  still  be  hard. 
But  she  had  courage;  she  could  meet  things  (most 
things)  as  they  came.  You  couldn't  expect  to  be  in 
any  situation  where  you  didn't  have  some  annoy- 
ances. The  last  year  had  been  so  excruciating  that 
the  pin  pricks  which  Wilbur  and  her  father  and 


44  SUPPORT 

Griffith  Rathvon  were  able  to  inflict  upon  her  ought 
to  seem  like  nothing.  They  were  nothing,  really. 

She  wondered  how  she  was  going  to  feel  about 
meeting  people.  From  one  point  of  view,  she  should 
be  glad  of  meeting  them,  for  they  would  give  her 
more  to  think  about.  She  would  not  have  an  oppor- 
tunity to  dwell  upon  herself. 

As  she  strolled  along,  she  paid  little  attention  to 
the  figures  which  she  met  or  passed  in  the  dimness. 
But  suddenly  she  had  the  feeling  that  the  form  that 
was  coming  toward  her  was  familiar.  The  man 
moved  forward,  quite  distinct  under  a  hanging  light, 
his  face  darkened  by  the  shadow  of  his  hat.  He  had 
almost  passed  before  Constance  knew  him.  At  the 
moment  of  her  recognition,  he  turned  to  her. 

"Oh — pardon  me — it's  Miss  Fenton — Mrs.  Mof- 
fatt,  I  mean." 

"Yes."  Constance  responded  to  the  hand  which  he 
held  out.  "It's  Mr.  Sharland." 

In  the  older  days  they  had  been  Constance  and 
Alison  to  each  other;  but  now  uncertainty  made 
them  take  refuge  hi  the  more  formal  address.  Their 
handclasp  was  friendly  and  natural.  They  were 
striving  in  the  dusk  to  see  each  other's  faces,  smiling 
vaguely,  pleased,  and  yet  not  sure  of  what  their 
individualities  had  become.  It  was  six  years  since 
she  had  seen  Alison  Sharland,  Constance  remem- 
bered. He  had  not  been  in  town  when  she  had 
visited  in  Blanchard  four  years  ago.  The  interven- 
ing time  had  changed  the  boyish  shape  of  twenty- 
six  into  the  more  settled  outline  of  the  man  of 


SUPPORT  45 

thirty- two;  but  there  was  the  same  suavity  of  fig- 
ure and  manner,  the  same  sureness  of  touch,  with 
more  restraint,  a  hint  of  hauteur. 

His  eyes  sought  hers  inquiringly.  "I  heard  you 
were  back,"  he  said. 

"Yes?"  Constance  wondered  what  he  had  heard. 
"I've  been  here  only  a  few  days." 

"Are  you  staying  some  time?"  The  question  was 
simply  put. 

"I  think  so."    She  tried  to  make  her  tone  casual. 

He  hesitated,  and  made  stock  of  the  common- 
places. "You  found  mighty  fine  weather  when  you 
came." 

"Beautiful.  I  love  the  fall  in  Blanchard.  You 
haven't  been  here  all  the  time?  You  weren't  in 
town  when  I  was  here  last." 

"I'm  not  sure  when  that  was.  I've  been  here  most 
of  the  time.  My  father  wanted  me  to  stay." 

"He's  gone  now?"  Constance  was  trying  to  re- 
call what  her  mother  had  written. 

"Yes ;  two  years  ago.    I'm  in  the  bank,  of  course." 

"You  would  be.    You  were  in  the  war,  I  suppose?" 

"Oh,  yes,  for  a  year  or  so.  But  one  forgets  about 
it." 

"I  dare  say."  They  both  knew  that  one  did  not 
forget. 

There  did  not  seem  to  be  much  to  say.  "Well,  I 
mustn't  keep  you,"  said  Sharland  easily.  "You're 
staying  at  home?" 

"Yes,  the  same  old  place." 

"I'll  call  in  if  I  may — and  talk  over  old  times." 


46  SUPPORT 

"Do."  Constance  found  her  voice  cordial.  "Tele- 
phone me,  so  that  I'll  be  sure  to  be  in." 

"I'll  do  that.    Good-by." 

"Good-by."  Constance  walked  on,  with  a  pleas- 
urable excitement  at  having  met  one  of  the  com- 
panions of  her  college  days.  She  and  Sharland  had 
been  friends — almost  more — in  the  time  when  they 
went,  with  a  group  of  other  young  men  and  women, 
to  all  the  gaieties  of  Blanchard.  Then,  somehow, 
she  had  married  Frank  Moffatt,  who  was  an  out- 
sider. After  she  had  gone  East,  she  had  thought, 
with  decreasing  frequency,  of  Alison,  and  he  had 
occasionally  found  mention  in  the  home  letters. 
Mr.  Sharland  the  elder  had  been  a  friend  of  Mr. 
Fenton;  they  had  belonged  to  the  same  fraternal 
order.  The  Sharlands  had  always  been  prosperous, 
conservative  people,  not  showy  nor  common,  but 
well-to-do.  Mr.  Sharland  had  had  a  lion's  share 
in  the  Citizen's  Bank,  and  Alison  had  stepped  into 
his  place  in  that  institution. 


Constance  found  her  father  and  mother  in  the 
sitting-room,  her  father  still  at  his  book,  her  mother 
glancing  over  a  church  paper.  "I  met  Alison  Shar- 
land as  I  was  coming  along."  She  sat  down,  with 
her  hat  on,  and  put  her  elbow  on  the  corner  of  the 
table. 

Mrs.  Fenton  smoothed  the  paper  in  her  lap.  "I 
see  him  once  in  a  while;  hardly  ever  to  speak  to. 


SUPPORT  47 

He's  a  nice-looking  young  man.  Old  Mr.  Sharland 
died  a  year  ago — or  was  it  two  years?  Fred,  when 
did  Mr.  Sharland  die?  Was  it  last  year  or  the  year 
before?" 

"Uh?"  Mr.  Fenton  kept  his  place  in  the  book 
with  his  finger.  "Sharland?  Let  me  see."  He 
took  off  his  glasses  and  tapped  with  them  on  the 
cover  of  the  book. 

"Alison  said  it  was  two  years,"  Constance  began. 

Her  father  gave  no  heed.  "It  was  the  year  we 
had  so  many  funerals  in  the  Lodge.  But  we  gave 
him  quite  a  send-off  in  spite  of  that;  yes,  quite  a 
fine  send-off.  It  must  have  been  three  years 
ago." 

"I  shouldn't  have  thought  it  was  so  long,"  Mrs. 
Fenton  peered  around  the  reading-lamp  at  her  hus- 
band. "Are  you  sure,  Fred?  Wasn't  that  the  time 
that  it  rained  so  hard  and  hailed,  and  they  couldn't 
go  to  the  cemetery  for  an  hour,  and  everybody  had 
to  sit  around " 

"No,  no !"  Mr.  Fenton  was  testy  in  his  assurance. 
"That  was  the  time  that  Henry  Fairfield  died. 
You've  got  it  mixed.  Sharland  died  the  year  before. 
You  know  he'd  been  ailing,  and  I  went  over  to  see 
him,  and  he  was  propped  up  in  bed.  He  says,  Ten- 
ton' — like  that — Tenton,  I'd  like  to  get  out  of  this ; 
I'd  like  to  get  out  of  this.'  And  he  did,"  Mr.  Fenton 
went  on  impressively.  "The  next  day  he  died. 
Don't  you  remember,  when  I  came  back  Wilbur  was 
here — had  come  unexpectedly — and  I  was  telling 
him  about  it?" 


48  SUPPORT 

"Oh,  yes,  yes!"  Mrs.  Fenton  conceded  her  error. 
"That  must  have  been  two  years  ago." 

"Alison  said  two  years,"  reiterated  Constance 
weakly. 

"Two  years.  It  was  two  years."  Mr.  Fenton 
tapped  meditatively.  "Good  fellow,  Sharland. 
Some  peculiarities.  He  always  used  to  carry  a  gold 
pencil,  I  remember;  and  he  had  some  special  kind 
of  neckties  sent  on  from  New  York — or  was  it 
London?" 

Constance  had  listened  with  a  mental  recoil  from 
the  conversation  which  had  been  going  on.  The  relish 
with  which  the  word  died  was  repeated  gave  her  a 
sensation  of  horror.  She  lapsed  into  her  own 
thoughts  for  a  moment,  and  then  heard  her  mother 
talking  again :  "Yes,  a  good  many  of  the  old  friends 
have  gone.  We  don't  know  when  it  will  be  our 
turn." 

"Goodness  me,  mother!"  Constance  could  not  help 
protesting.  "You're  young  yet — only  a  little  over 
sixty." 

Her  mother  shook  her  head  angrily.  "That's  just 
talk.  Wait  till  you're  as  old  as  I  am,  and  then  see. 
Only  you  won't  have  as  hard  a  life  as  I've  had.  I've 
had  enough  to  make  me  old."  Constance  construed 
this  as  a  subtle  reference  to  the  divorce  in  the  family. 
"The  trouble  is  that  one  is  young  such  a  short  time, 
and  old  such  a  long  time." 

That  was  true,  Constance  thought  with  a  pang. 
Why,  a  woman  was  considered  old  by  the  time  she 
was  thirty-five  or  forty,  and  from  then  on,  to  the 


SUPPORT  49 

time  she  was  a  hundred,  she  was  old.  Well,  from 
fifty  on,  anyhow.  It  was  silly  and  cruel.  One  should 
be  young  and  energetic  and  useful  and  happy  at 
seventy,  not  harping  on  the  note  of  decay  and  hope- 
lessness and  misery. 

She  came  back  again  to  what  her  mother  was 
saying.  "The  only  consolation  is  to  have  the  affec- 
tion and  reverence  of  one's  children,  so  that  they 
soften  the  hardships  of  old  age." 

Constance  felt  an  instinct  of  antagonism.  "What 
are  the  hardships  of  old  age?"  she  said.  "As  far 
as  I  can  see,  they  consist  of  sitting  by  the  fire  and 
reading,  and  getting  other  people  to  do  what  you 
want  them  to."  She  took  a  perverse  pleasure  in 
saying  these  things,  partly,  perhaps,  because  of  the 
cold  fear  in  her  heart:  fear  of  the  tune  when  she 
would  have  to  admit  herself  old. 

"Constance!  How  can  you  talk  like  that?  I 
didn't  suppose  you  were  so  hard-hearted."  Mrs. 
Fenton's  face  was  shocked  and  reproachful. 

"Well,  mother,  most  old  people  live  in  that  way. 
Never  mind.  Let's  not  talk  about  it,"  Constance 
replied.  "I  was  thinking  that  I  might  help  you  to 
get  the  bedding  in  order  for  the  winter.  I  notice 
that  several  of  the  sheets  and  quilts  need  atten- 
tion." 

"Yes,  they  do.  I'd  be  awfully  glad.  I  haven't 
had  time  to  get  to  them."  Gratitude  was  replacing 
irritation  in  the  older  woman's  face.  "There  are  the 
sheets  to  turn  and  mend,  and  blankets  to  bind,  and 
comfortables  to  do  over." 


50  SUPPORT 

"I'll  help  you.  Do  you  have  the  washerwoman  to- 
morrow?" 

"Yes.  Such  a  nice  woman.  I  think  you'll  know 
who  she  is.  She  was  a  Blake — one  of  those  Blakes 
that  used  to  live  over  on  Clinton  Street." 

"Oh,  yes."  Constance  remembered  the  Blakes — 
people  who  worked  hard  and  behaved  respectably, 
and  kept  their  children  clean  and  well-mannered, 
but  who  never  seemed  to  get  ahead. 

Mr.  Fenton,  over  his  book,  was  muttering,  "I 
wish  Rose  would  come  home.  I  don't  like  to  have 

her  out  with  that "  The  rest  of  the  sentence 

was  an  indistinguishable  mumble. 


CHAPTER  IV 


ON  Monday  morning  Rose  had  an  eight  o'clock 
lecture,  she  said,  and  rushed  off  to  it  without  eating 
any  breakfast.  She  tied  her  shoes  with  her  foot  on 
the  lower  step  of  the  stairs,  as  she  was  leaving  the 
house ;  and  she  pinned  on  her  hat  when  she  was  half- 
way to  the  gate. 

"That  comes  of  being  out  with  that "  her  fa- 
ther was  muttering. 

"Mother,  what's  the  matter  with  that  man  Schel- 
ling?  Is  he  really  so  undesirable?"  Constance 
asked  in  a  low  voice,  as  she  put  an  egg  on  to  boil  for 
her  father.  She  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  kitchen  clock. 
"Of  course  his  name  is  German,  but  there  are  some 
Germans  who  are  not  so  bad — and  he  seems  some- 
what Americanized." 

"I  don't  know  much  about  him,"  Mrs.  Fenton 
answered.  She  was  clearly  reluctant  even  to  speak 
of  the  man.  "Your  father  doesn't  like  him.  He 
comes  of  a  kind  of  low  family,  Constance.  There's 
an  uncle  who's  a  barber  or  something — not  here  in 
town,"  she  added  gratefully;  "and  the  mother  and 
sisters  are — well,  you  know,  sort  of  common." 

"But  how  about  the  man  himself?" 

"I  don't  think  he  amounts  to  much.    He  isn't 

51 


52  SUPPORT 

worthy  of  Rose :  he  isn't,  really.  I  don't  say  it  just 
because  she's  mine." 

Constance  rolled  the  egg  over  in  the  kettle.  Her 
brows  contracted.  "How  did  she  get  in  with  a  man 
like  that,  in  the  first  place?"  she  asked  incredulously. 

"I  don't  know,  Connie."  Mrs.  Fenton  made  a  ges- 
ture of  despair.  "Those  things  are  beyond  me.  I 
think  she  met  him  at  a  house  party  out  at  the  Lake. 
I  begged  her  not  to  go  there  with  the  Nuttings. 
They're  not  so  objectionable  themselves,  but  they 
have  a  queer  crowd  around  them.  They're  not  our 
sort.  But  Rose  would  go — there's  no  restraining 
her.  You  know  how  she  is." 

"I  know."  Constance's  heart  was  heavy.  She 
remembered  incidents  of  Rose's  earlier  years,  in 
which  wild  horses  had  not  been  able  to  hold  her 
back  from  rash  performances. 

"She  met  him  there,"  Mrs.  Fenton  went  on,  "and 
he  began  taking  her  out  in  his  car,  and  coming  to 
the  house." 

"Did  you  protest?" 

"Of  course  I  did.  But  you  know  how  Rose  is.  If 
you  try  to  persuade  her  not  to  do  a  thing,  she'll 
move  heaven  and  earth  to  do  it." 

"I  know,"  Constance  repeated.  She  took  the  egg 
out  of  the  kettle  and  held  it  on  a  spoon  while  her 
mother  continued. 

"I  don't  think  she  was  really  interested  in  him  at 
all,  until  your  father  began  to  make  a  fuss,  and  said 
he  never  expected  that  a  daughter  of  his  would  take 
up  with  a  low  family  like  the  Schellings.  Rose  got 


SUPPORT  53 

furious,  and  went  right  to  the  telephone  and  called 
him  up,  and  told  him  she'd  changed  her  mind — she 
found  she  could  go  motoring  with  him  that  after- 
noon. From  that  time  on,  she  was  with  him  day 
and  night.  Every  time  any  of  us  said  anything, 
she'd  start  in  fresh,  as  it  were,  and  see  more  of  him 
than  ever." 

"Poor  Rose!"  sighed  the  elder  sister.  Why  was 
she  so  headstrong,  so  stubborn,  so  lacking  in  judg- 
ment, so  regardless  of  other  people's  wishes? 
"Wasn't  there  someone  else  she  could  go  with?"  Con- 
stance asked. 

"Why,  Connie,  she  could  go  with  any  one  of  a  half 
dozen  young  men,"  Mrs.  Fenton  answered  mourn- 
fully. "There  was  that  splendid  young  fellow,  Her- 
bert Corden;  one  of  the  Cordens  of  Cordensville, 
you  know.  His  father  is  worth  well  on  toward  a 
million,  and  Herbert  is  a  fine,  brilliant  young  man. 
He  finished  the  law  course  last  year,  and  now  he's 
with  old  Judge  Brent.  He  came  here  a  good  deal 
for  a  while,  and  took  Rose  to  some  lovely  parties. 
But  she  got  so  that  she  wouldn't  go  out  with  him — 
said  she  didn't  have  the  right  kind  of  clothes." 

Constance  cringed.  Rose  was  so  viciously  proud; 
she  couldn't  bear  to  go  out  with  that  sort  of  man  and 
not  be  suitably  dressed.  "Poor  Rose!"  she  sighed 
again.  "I  must  take  this  egg  to  father." 

She  went  to  serve  her  father's  breakfast,  her  mind 
full  of  the  problems  which  her  younger  sister  pre- 
sented. If  only  Rose  could  be  more  sensible — not 
so  sensitive  and  high -headed  and  unmanageable! 


54  SUPPORT 

"Perhaps  I  can  do  something,"  she  thought,  not  very 
hopefully.  She  would  sound  Rose  on  the  subject 
of  Schelling,  try  to  talk  things  over  with  her,  get  at 
her  point  of  view;  and  then  possibly  she  could  im- 
prove conditions  to  some  extent. 


"Mrs.  Greening  is  at  the  back  door,"  said  Mrs. 
Fenton.  "It  isn't  unlocked  yet." 

Constance  went  to  open  the  door,  smiling  at  the 
woman  who  entered,  and  saying  "Good  morning." 
She  remembered  that  Mrs.  Greening  had  been  a 
Blake. 

Mrs.  Greening  was  a  slight,  worried-looking 
woman,  with  hair  showing  premature  streaks  of 
gray.  She  took  off  her  black  cape,  with  a  remark 
about  the  weather.  "It's  fine  for  drying,"  she  said, 
with  a  brightness  that  had  in  it  a  suggestion  of 
pathos.  "You're  Miss  Constance,  aren't  you?"  she 
asked  shyly. 

"Yes,  I'm  Constance,"  answered  Mrs.  Moffatt. 

"I  don't  believe  you  ever  knew  me,"  Mrs.  Green- 
ing remarked.  "But  you  knew  my  cousin  Honoria, 
didn't  you?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  knew  Honoria  Blake  very  well 
We  used  to  be  in  the  grade  school  together." 

"You  would  be.  You're  about  of  an  age,"  nodded 
Mrs.  Greening. 

"What  has  become  of  Honoria?"  asked  Constance, 
willing  to  talk  of  the  old  days.  "She  was  a  sweet 
girl,  and  I  liked  her  so  much." 


SUPPORT  55 

Mrs.  Greening's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "Why, 
Honoria's  dead.  Didn't  you  know?" 

Constance  felt  a  shock  of  real  regret  at  the  news. 
She  and  Honoria,  in  the  truly  democratic  American 
manner,  had  loved  each  other  to  distraction  when 
they  had  been  little  girls  in  pig-tails.  "Oh,  I'm  so 
sorry!"  she  cried.  "Nobody  ever  told  me." 

"Honoria  went  more  than  a  year  ago,"  the  other 
woman  said,  her  lips  twitching.  "I  can't  get  used 
to  her  being  gone.  She  left  a  baby,  Miss  Constance 
— a  dear  little  thing.  Three  years  old  it  is  now — a 
girl." 

"Oh,  did  she?"  said  Constance.  It  was  hard  to 
visualize  Honoria  Blake's  little  girl. 

Mrs.  Greening  continued.  "She  was  married  four 
years  before  she  had  any  children.  Then  this  little 
one  came.  Its  father  died,  and  Honoria  came  home 
to  live  with  me.  I  didn't  have  much  to  offer  her, 
but  she  had  to  live  somewhere.  She  didn't  last  long. 
She  just  kind  of  gave  up.  Do  you  know,  I  think 
that's  the  way  a  good  many  people  die — they  just 
naturally  let  go." 

"I  dare  say  it  is,"  Constance  replied.  She  re- 
flected darkly,  "It  does  take  a  fearful  lot  of  courage 
to  live." 

"It's  an  awfully  nice  little  child,"  Mrs.  Greening 
said,  with  a  return  of  her  bright  look.  "She's  a 
lovely  little  thing." 

"And  you're  taking  care  of  her?"  said  Constance. 
"It  doesn't  seem  quite  fair.  You  have  children  of 
your  own,  haven't  you?" 


56  SUPPORT 

"Yes.  Two.  But  what  could  I  do?  I  loved 
Honoria.  She  was  younger  than  I  was,  and  al- 
ways looked  to  me  for  help.  I  couldn't  put  her 
baby  into  a  home,  or  any  such  place." 

"Can't  the  husband's  people  do  anything?" 

"There's  only  an  old  mother,  half  out  of  her  head, 
and  a  son  who's  not  much  good.  No,  they've  never 
offered  to  do  anything." 

Constance  considered.  "I  might  do  something  for 
the  little  girl,"  she  thought.  "Dear  Honoria!"  She 
and  Honoria  had  walked  home  from  school  together, 
and  had  written  notes  in  class,  and  she  had  helped 
Honoria  with  her  'rithmetic.  And  now  she  was 
gone,  and  the  little  girl  left. 

"Constance,  what  do  you  think  about  washing 
this  silk  blouse  of  Rose's?"  Mrs.  Fenton  had  come 
into  the  kitchen.  "You  don't  think  the  stripe  will 
fade,  do  you?" 

Constance  gave  her  attention  to  the  blouse,  and 
then  went  to  order  the  groceries  by  telephone.  She 
soon  forgot  about  Honoria  Blake  and  her  baby. 
They  recurred  to  her  later  in  the  day,  when  she  and 
her  mother  were  sorting  the  bedding  which  needed 
repairing.  "Did  you  ever  see  the  child  that  Mrs. 
Greening  has,  that  was  Honoria  Blake's?"  she  asked 
her  mother. 

"What  child?"  said  Mrs.  Fenton  with  a  patent 
lack  of  interest.  "Oh,  the  Greening  or  Blake  child, 
or  whatever  it  is.  No,  I  never  saw  it." 

"I  wonder  what  her  name  is?"  murmured  Con- 
stance. "I  must  ask  Mrs.  Greening." 


SUPPORT  57 


It  was  that  evening,  when  Rose  was  getting  ready 
to  go  down  to  the  drawing-room  (Herman  Schelling 
was  calling  to  take  her  out)  that  Constance  pro- 
pounded her  questions.  Rose  was  "revising"  her 
hair,  as  she  said ;  securing  the  heavy  dark  coils  with 
extra  pins,  and  replacing  the  fine  net  which  she 
habitually  wore.  Constance  began,  conscious  at  the 
same  moment  that  she  might  not  be  choosing  her 
words  wisely,  "Rose,  what  is  it  that  you  like  about 
this  man  Schelling?" 

Rose  looked  sidewise  over  her  arm  as  she  placed 
a  hairpin  carefully  in  a  loosened  lock.  "About  Her- 
man Schelling?"  she  said  vaguely,  as  if  to  gain  time. 

"Yes.  Why  does  he  appeal  to  you  so  much?" 

"Did  you  hear  me  say  that  he  did?"  queried  Rose 
coolly. 

"No."  Constance  was  rather  taken  aback.  "But 
I  judge  by  what  mother  says." 

"So  mother  has  been  setting  you  against  him?" 
Rose  interpolated,  with  an  angry  glance. 

"I  can  judge  by  your  actions,  if  you  want  me  to. 
You  accept  his  attentions — such  as  they  are — and 
go  out  with  him  for  hours  at  a  time."  Constance 
could  not  refrain  from  the  little  stab  "such  as  they 
are";  Rose  herself  admitted  that  he  never  took  her 
to  any  festivity  that  counted. 

Rose  went  on  putting  hairpins  into  her  hair — an 
appalling  number,  Constance  reflected  subcon- 
sciously. The  younger  woman's  face  was  pale;  her 


58  SUPPORT 

nostrils  were  thin  and  pinched.  "I  don't  know  that 
it's  anybody's  business  what  I  do,  or  where  I  go 
with  Herman,"  she  said  at  last. 

"Oh,  it  is,  too!"  Constance  tried  to  make  her  voice 
atone  for  her  ill-judged  remark.  "You  know  we  all 
want  you  to  do  so  well.  We're  so  interested  in  your 
prospects." 

"Prospects!"  Rose  turned  and  faced  her  sister. 
Her  tone  was  so  bitter  that  Constance  was  start- 
led. "What  prospects  can  I  have?  We're  abso- 
lutely without  money,  except  just  enough  to  scrape 
along  on,  and  I  can't  have  any  decent  clothes,  or  go 
with  the  kind  of  set  that  I'd  like  to — I  hate  grinding 
along  with  nothing!" 

Constance  kept  her  countenance,  though  her 
heart  was  sore.  "But  that  doesn't  really  explain 
"  she  began. 

"Perhaps  it  does."  Rose  was  sullen  now.  "If  I 
can't  have  what  I  want,  I'll  have  something.  I'll 
spite  the  world  for  going  against  me." 

"Rose,  dear,  how  foolish ! "  Constance  was  aghast. 
"The  world  isn't  against  you,  any  more  than  anyone 
else." 

"Well,  it's  against  you,  isn't  it?"  Rose  was  flip- 
pant, almost  to  insolence.  "You're  in  as  bad  a  mess 
as  anyone  needs  to  be,  aren't  you?" 

Constance  could  not  help  wincing,  but  she  held 

herself  in  hand.     "That  may  or  may  not  be " 

she  replied. 

"It's  down  on  us  all,"  the  girl  broke  in  wretch- 
edly. Tears  were  in  her  eyes.  "See  what  a  muddle 


SUPPORT  59 

we're  in.  We  belong  to  a  class  that  wants  things, 
and  has  to  have  them,  to  be  happy.  And  we  haven't 
anything  at  all."  Her  voice  shook.  She  took  up  a 
buffer  and  began  polishing  her  nails.  "The  only 
thing  to  do  is  to  defy  fate,  or  whatever  it  is  that 
puts  us  into  this  condition — not  to  care — and  just 
let  yourself  go.  It  doesn't  make  any  difference,  any- 
how." 

"Oh,  Rose!" 

The  younger  woman's  face  showed  for  an  instant 
the  hurt  which  she  had  suffered  from  deprivation, 
humiliation,  wounded  love.  "You  see  where  I 
stand,"  the  girl  muttered. 

"It's  so  false."  Constance  spoke  firmly,  but  with 
the  tenderness  of  pity.  "You  know  it  does  make  a 
difference,  and  you  can't  not  care." 

Rose  threw  down  the  nail  buffer,  and  turned  with 
a  forced  laugh.  "Don't  take  it  all  so  seriously,  Old 
Wet-Blanket,"  she  said,  as  she  dropped  a  kiss  on  the 
cheek  of  her  sister,  to  express  her  regret  for  the  re- 
mark about  the  "mess."  "It's  all  right — all  right — 
all  right."  Humming  a  light  air,  she  ran  down  the 
stairs  with  a  great  show  of  gaiety.  Constance  was 
left  with  a  heavy  sense  of  depression,  and  an  aching 
grief  for  the  unhappiness  of  which  her  sister  had 
given  her  a  glimpse. 


In  her  own  room,  she  sat  down  to  think.  She  was 
sick  with  sympathy  for  Rose.  It  was  hard  for  a  high- 
spirited  girl  who  loved  the  good  things  of  life  to  be 


60  SUPPORT 

cramped  and  crushed  by  poverty.  Perhaps  it  would 
have  been  better  if  Rose  had  not  tried  to  go  to  col- 
lege, if  she  had  frankly  taken  a  course  at  a  business 
school,  and  set  out  to  earn  her  own  clothes.  She 
would  have  had  a  little  money  to  spend,  anyhow,  and 
would  not  have  been  dependent  on  what  the  family 
could  scrape  together.  But  that  would  not  have 
helped  much,  either.  She  could  not  have  earned 
enough  to  satisfy  her  desires,  and  her  social  oppor- 
tunities would  have  been  lessened,  not  increased,  by 
her  taking  an  office  position  and  settling  down  to 
laborious  tasks.  It  was  not  likely  that  Herbert 
Corden  of  Cordensville  would  have  sought  her  in 
an  office,  if  he  had  not  pursued  her  more  diligently 
while  she  was  at  college.  And  it  was  not  likely  that 
Rose  would  have  been  less  proud  as  a  stenographer 
than  she  was  as  a  college  girl!  It  was  undoubtedly 
her  "taking  up"  with  Herman  Schelling  that  had  put 
an  end  to  Corden's  attentions;  and  being  in  an  office 
would  not  have  prevented  the  unwisdom  to  which 
she  had  yielded,  in  her  encouragement  of  the  undesir- 
able German. 

It  was  baffling.  Constance  gave  a  sigh  of  misery. 
She  felt  angry  at  Rose — at  her  persistent  destroying 
of  her  own  possibilities,  her  refusal  to  make  the  best 
of  what  she  had.  Many  girls  would  have  been  de- 
lighted with  the  opportunity  to  go  to  college  and  yet 
to  stay  at  home.  How  unavailing  it  is,  the  woman 
thought,  to  try  to  deal  with  morbid  sensitiveness 
which  shows  itself  in  recklessness  and  defiance !  She 
did  not  see  how  anyone  could  awaken  Rose  to  her 


SUPPORT  61 

errors  and  make  her  turn  from  the  course  which  bade 
fair  to  ruin  her  life. 

Constance  reviewed  her  own  situation.  So  far, 
her  sojourn  in  her  old  home  had  given  her  added  wor- 
ries, instead  of  the  consolation  for  which  she  had 
hoped.  To  begin  with  one  of  the  smallest  of  her 
troubles,  the  ugliness  of  the  house  annoyed  her. 
She  had  forgotten  about  it,  or  had  failed  to  regard  it, 
because  her  mind  had  been  centered  on  other  things. 
The  house,  of  course,  had  grown  shabbier  in  the  six 
years  of  her  absence;  there  had  been  no  money 
for  replacements  or  repairs.  She  saw,  too,  that  her 
standards  of  taste  had  been  steadily  develop- 
ing. "I  expected  to  come  back  the  same  person 
that  I  went  away,"  she  thought;  "and  I'm  not  the 
same  person  at  all.  Why" — she  paused  in  surprise 
— "I  don't  believe  I  knew  myself  in  the  least,  and 
now  She  and  I  are  beginning  to  get  acquainted." 
She  dwelt  on  this  idea  for  a  few  illumined  moments ; 
then  she  returned  to  the  problem  of  the  house. 

She  contrasted  it  with  her  apartment  on  Morn- 
ingside  Heights.  That  had  been  a  beautiful  little 
place.  People  had  exclaimed  over  it  when  they 
came  in.  There  was  something  "so  restful"  about  it, 
they  said.  It  was  simple,  and  not  expensively  fur- 
nished, but  everything  had  been  carefully  selected 
and  placed.  The  few  ornaments  were  choice,  in 
their  way:  they  had  been  the  result  of  study  and 
deliberation.  Frank  had  laughed  tolerantly  (later 
in  their  married  life,  derisively)  at  the  seriousness 
with  which  she  had  approached  the  selection  of  a 


62  SUPPORT 

piece  of  furniture  or  bric-a-brac.  He  had  sometimes 
gone  with  her,  wearing  an  assumption  of  martyrdom, 
when  she  browsed  about  in  shops,  admiring  or  re- 
jecting, choosing  or  relinquishing.  Then  she  had 
gone  alone,  and  had  spent  fascinated  hours  at  ex- 
hibits, auction  rooms,  antique  shops,  the  Metro- 
politan Museum. 

Once,  toward  the  holidays,  she  had  suggested  that 
she  should  take  a  position  for  a  while  in  the  shop  of 
an  interior  decorator  whom  she  knew.  It  was  the 
winter  that  Frank  was  gone  so  much.  He  had  been 
openly  scandalized.  He  guessed,  he  said,  that  his 
wife  didn't  have  to  be  a  saleswoman  in  anybody's 
store. 

"It  isn't  that,"  she  answered.  "I  should  be  seeing 
something,  learning  something,  having  a  good  time." 

But  Frank  had  been  obdurate,  calling  heaven  to 
witness  that  he  could  support  his  wife  while  he  had 
one. 

"Support!"  she  had  echoed  bitterly;  but  Frank 
had  not  heard. 

When  she  had  broken  up  her  home,  she  had  sold 
the  heavier  pieces  to  a  woman  in  the  same  house, 
and  had  lent  and  stored  the  rest.  The  ornaments 
and  hangings  she  had  brought  with  her,  but  most  of 
them  were  still  in  the  boxes  in  which  they  had  come. 
She  thought  of  some  of  them,  and  wondered  whether 
she  could  use  them  where  she  was.  But  she  decided 
that  in  her  mother's  house  they  would  only  be  an 
inharmonious  element. 

After  all,  were  one's  outward  surroundings  of  so 


SUPPORT  63 

much  consequence?  Constance1  told  herself  that 
they  did  not  matter.  Herself  told  Constance  that 
they  mattered  more  than  almost  anything  else. 
"Why?"  asked  Constance,  pondering.  "Because,"  the 
answer  came,  "they  express  the  thought  of  one's 
environment." 

"Oh,  well!  I  may  get  around  to  improve  things 
after  a  while,"  she  said.  She  seemed  likely  to  have 
a  long  time  to  do  it  in.  There  were  other  matters 
of  importance  to  occupy  her  mind. 

She  let  her  thoughts  dwell  for  a  moment  on  her 
father  and  mother:  the  depressing  gloominess  of 
their  old  age,  the  narrowness  and  emptiness  of  their 
lives.  They  had  no  real  affection  for  each  other, 
she  knew.  The  illusion  of  love  had  vanished,  years 
before.  Their  association  was  based  on  habit  and 
convention.  They  dwelt  in  a  mental  atmosphere 
of  dearth  and  worry,  and  the  fear  of  death.  "Shall 
I  grow  to  be  like  them  if  I  stay  here?"  she  asked. 
She  resolved  to  fill  her  mind  full  of  better  things  than 
they  had  found,  lest  she  should  be  transformed  into 
their  likeness. 

As  she  so  often  did,  she  wondered  about  Frank — 
where  he  was  and  what  he  was  doing.  Thinking  of 
him  no  longer  gave  her  a  poignant  hurt.  He  would 
marry  Mrs.  Carmichael,  after  a  while.  They  would 
have  to  go  to  Connecticut  or  to  some  other  place, 
where  the  law  w>as  lenient.  Constance  let  her  re- 
membrance linger  on  the  early  part  of  her  married 
life.  Strangely  enough,  thinking  of  this  period  did 
not  make  her  suffer.  It  was  as  if  she  said  to  herself, 


64  SUPPORT 

"I've  had  that  much  out  of  life,  anyhow!"  How 
good-looking  Frank  had  been,  how  solid,  how  re- 
sponsive, how  reliable.  She  had  not  asked  much, 
to  be  sure,  but  he  had  not  failed  her  then.  She  liked 
her  little  flat,  enjoyed  the  housework  which  she  did, 
delighted  in  furbishing  up  her  clothes,  going  out  to 
a  restaurant  with  Frank,  meeting  his  friends,  filling 
her  days  with  duties  and  pleasures.  They  had  taken 
a  motor  trip  through  Massachusetts,  that  first  spring 
that  they  were  in  the  East.  How  care-free  they  had 
been,  and  how  vital  the  loveliness  of  the  landscape 
had  seemed  to  her!  There  had  been  one  or  two 
small  incidents  which  had  marred  their  happiness; 
and  once  or  twice,  even  then,  she  had  suspected  that 
there  were  fundamental  oppositions  of  mind  and 
temperament  between  her  and  Frank.  But,  of 
course,  she  had  not  counted  on  this.  She  had  come 
a  long  way  since  that  time.  She  had  heard  people 
speak  of  death  as  "passing  on":  she  had  passed  on, 
out  of  her  old  life,  into  this  differing  environment, 
this  perplexing  conflict  of  ideas  and  personalities. 
The  change  must  mean,  somehow,  progress  and  in- 
struction. Rose,  Wilbur,  Sally  Rathvon — they  must 
all  have  something  to  give  her,  even  though  she 
received  it  with  pain.  She  had  faith  to  believe  that. 
She  took  up  a  book,  and  resolutely  fixed  her  mind 
upon  it.  She  heard  Rose's  pretty  laughter,  down  in 
the  hall,  and  the  heavier  tones  of  Herman  Schelling's 
discordant  mirth. 


CHAPTER  V 


THE  next  day  was  happier.  Sally  Rathvon  came 
over,  her  own  sane  and  simple  self.  Constance 
had  only  a  moment  alone  with  her,  but  that  moment 
was  comforting.  She  put  her  arms  around  Con- 
stance's shoulder,  and  said  in  a  low  voice,  "Connie, 
you  mustn't  mind  Grif.  He — you  know — it's  just 
that  he  cares  for  me  so  much,  not  that  he  has  any- 
thing against — anyone  else.  It's  all  right,  isn't  it?" 

Constance  nodded,  choking.  The  feeling  of  be- 
reavement which  she  had  had  when  she  left  the 
Rathvon  home  on  Sunday  had  not  been  quite  healed. 
She  was  not  sure,  in  spite  of  Sally's  protestations, 
that  Griffith  cherished  no  personal  antagonism,  but 
she  let  that  pass.  "I  can't  lose  you,  Sally,"  she 
murmured,  her  arms  tightening  around  her  friend, 
"I  need  somebody — I  need  you." 

"You'll  always  have  me,  Connie."  Sally's  honest 
voice  was  assurance  itself.  "But  I  have  to  be  fair 
to — to  everybody,  as  nearly  as  I  can." 

"Yes,  I  know."  Constance  blinked  back  her  tears. 
"Good  little  Sally!" 

Mrs.  Fenton  called,  "Did  someone  come  in,  Con- 
stance?" She  came  to  the  hall  door.  "Oh,  it's  you, 
Sally.  Do  come  in.  How  good  to  see  you!" 

65 


66  SUPPORT 

There  was  no  more  private  conversation,  but  Con- 
stance felt  eased.  She  was  not  going  to  lose  Sally. 
Even  Griffith  Rathvon  could  not  take  Sally  away. 
The  long  friendship  of  two  women  meant  too  much 
to  be  rashly  destroyed. 


The  week  went  on  without  further  incident.  Rose 
was  out  at  her  classes.  Mrs.  Fenton  toiled  at  the 
housework.  Mr.  Fenton  read  incessantly,  and  pot- 
tered about  the  garden,  with  his  hand  at  his  back. 
The  weather  was  perfect,  but  Constance  did  not  go 
out  much.  "Next  week  I'll  begin,"  she  said  to  her- 
self. She  helped  her  mother  about  the  house,  and 
busied  herself  with  the  restoration  of  the  bedding. 
She  had  a  fierce  desire  to  keep  herself  as  fully  occu- 
pied as  possible.  She  dreaded  idleness  and  too  much 
liberty  to  think.  Even  so,  she  did  her  sewing  alone, 
in  the  little  room  over  the  back  stairs. 

"Why  don't  you  bring  those  things  down,  and  be 
with  the  family?"  Mrs.  Fenton  urged. 

"They're  so  big;  they  clutter  up  a  room  so,"  Con- 
stance explained,  "and  get  lint  and  thread  all  over 
the  carpet.  Besides,  the  machine  can't  be  moved 
around.  I  need  it  for  the  long  seams." 

There  was  no  reply  for  this;  so  she  sat  for  two 
hours  every  afternoon,  working  and  thinking.  She 
was  not  always  so  unhappy  as  she  had  reason  to 
be. 

It  was  a  relief  when,  on  Thursday,  Alison  Shar- 


SUPPORT  67 

land  called  up  on  the  telephone.  "I'd  like  to  come 
over  to-morrow  evening,"  he  said. 

"Yes.  Do  come."  She  felt  exhilarated  at  the 
prospect  of  having  a  man  caller  again. 

Constance  put  the  large  dim  drawing-room  in 
order,  trying  to  make  the  most  of  the  better  pieces 
of  furniture,  and  obscure  the  others.  "I  could  make 
a  really  handsome  room  of  this,  with  not  too  much 
effort,"  she  thought;  "just  change  the  wallpaper  and 
take  out  the  knickknacks,  and  put  up  some  good  in- 
offensive curtains.  Never  mind.  Alison  won't  care. 
His  mother's  parlor  was  precisely  like  this,  the  last 
time  I  saw  it;  it  belongs  to  the  same  period."  She 
had  been  invited  to  the  Sharlands',  in  times  past,  as 
a  part  of  Alison's  set.  Mrs.  Sharland  had  been  a 
quiet,  refined  little  woman,  in  process  of  being  over- 
whelmed by  the  aggressions  of  her  two  daughters, 
Flora  and  Katherine.  Flora  was  married  now,  and 
lived  in  Chicago.  Katherine,  who  was  Constance's 
age,  was  still  at  home.  Constance  wondered 
whether  Mrs.  Sharland  had  been  entirely  over- 
whelmed. 

"It  would  be  nice  to  have  a  little  fire  on  the 
hearth  in  the  drawing-room,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Fen- 
ton.  "Is  there  any  wood?" 

"Yes,  a  little,  in  the  shed,"  Mrs.  Fenton  replied. 

Constance  laid  the  fire,  and  went  to  put  on  a  light 
dress.  She  did  her  hair  low,  with  a  tortoise-shell 
comb  at  the  side,  and  touched  her  cheeks  with  rouge. 
She  was  conscious  of  looking  well,  and,  for  the  hour, 


68  SUPPORT 

not  appreciably  older  than  in  the  year  of  her  mar- 
riage. 

Sharland  was  not  in  evening  dress,  but  his  busi- 
ness suit  was  excellently  made,  and  gave  him  a 
sufficiently  distinguished  air.  He  was  well-enough- 
looking,  too,  though  not  handsome  in  the  manner  of 
the  clothing  advertisements.  His  face  was  hard — 
harder  than  it  had  been  a  few  years  before.  He  was 
naturally  less  boyish  than  he  had  been  then.  He 
was  quiet,  like  his  mother,  but  in  no  danger,  Con- 
stance decided,  of  being  browbeaten  by  Flora  and 
Katherine. 

He  exclaimed  his  satisfaction  as  he  came  into  the 
"parlor"  and  sat  down  by  the  fire.  "It's  great  to 
be  here,  and  to  see  you  again,  after  all  this  time," 
he  said,  smiling.  "How  long  is  it?  Oh,  well,  never 
mind.  There's  no  use  in  getting  down  to  figures, 
is  there?" 

"None  whatever.  It's  kinder  not  to,"  Constance 
assented.  "I  was  back  at  home  once,  as  I  said,  but 
you  were  away,  they  told  me." 

"That  was  probably  when  I  was  up  in  North  Da- 
kota, just  before  the  war — our  part  of  the  war,  I 
mean." 

"Yes,  it  probably  was." 

"I  was  up  there  in  my  uncle's  bank,  for  a  year," 
said  Sharland,  settling  himself  more  comfortably  in 
his  chair. 

"How  did  you  like  it  up  there?"  asked  Constance, 
to  make  conversation. 

"Not  very  well.    I  wanted  to  be  back  in  this  neck 


SUPPORT  69 

of  the  woods.  Then  the  war  came  on,  and  I  enlisted, 
and  was  gone  more  than  a  year — nearly  two." 

"You  were  with  the  Army  of  Occupation?" 

"Yes,  for  a  while.  Since  I  came  back,  I've  been 
establishing  myself  in  my  father's  old  place  in  the 
bank." 

"I  seem  to  have  known  these  facts  vaguely,"  Con- 
stance remarked.  "Mother  has  sent  me  the  News, 
once  in  a  while,  and  I've  gleaned  a  good  deal  here 
and  there,  about  the  doings  of  the  old  friends.  I've 
kept  in  touch  more  than  I  realized.  I  know  pretty 
well  who's  dead  and  who's  married,  and  what  busi- 
ness everybody  is  in,  but  I  confess  I  don't  know 
everybody's  income,  nor  how  many  babies  they 
have." 

"One  can't  expect  everything,"  laughed  Sharland. 
"Some  of  those  little  details  have  escaped  me,  even 
in  my  position." 

"You  do  have  a  chance  to  guess  at  the  incomes," 
said  Constance.  She  was  glad  that,  years  ago,  a 
business  relationship  had  impelled  Mr.  Fenton  to 
carry  his  account  at  the  State  Bank,  not  the  Citi- 
zen's, in  which  the  Sharlands  were  interested.  It 
would  be  humiliating  to  have  Alison  handling  their 
small  affairs  at  present.  "Now  I  must  ask  you  about 
some  of  the  people  in  our  old  set,"  she  went  on. 
"There  are  some  that  I  don't  know  a  thing  about. 
What  has  become  of  Tom  Elwood?" 

Alison  reached  into  his  pocket  for  a  cigarette  case. 
"Do  you  mind  if  I  smoke?"  She  shook  her  head. 
"Why,  Tom's  out  in  the  Philippines,  I  believe,"  he 


70  SUPPORT 

replied  to  her  question.  "I  don't  hear  from  him  my- 
self." He  offered  her  a  cigarette ;  she  shook  her  head 
again.  "He  was  with  a  company  dealing  in  agricul- 
tural implements — doing  pretty  well,  I  imagine." 

"That's  good.    I  always  liked  Tom." 

"He's  married,  of  course,"  said  Sharland.  "Tom 
would  be,  you  know.  Let's  see.  I  don't  think  you 
were  acquainted  with  his  wife.  She  was  Alice  Grib- 
ble.  She  visited  her  aunt,  a  Mrs.  Hoxie,  over  on 
Chandler  Street." 

"No,  I  don't  remember  her.  And,  oh,  yes!  I 
wanted  to  ask  about  Lillian  Brooks.  We  used  to  say 
that  she  went  on  forever.  Where  has  she  gone  on 
to,  now?" 

"Lillian  was  an  odd  girl,  wasn't  she?  She's  mar- 
ried and  living  in  Tennessee  or  somewhere,"  an- 
swered Alison.  "I  don't  know  anything  about  her, 
any  more."  They  went  on  talking  about  their  former 
acquaintances,  and  Alison  grew  animated  and  gay. 

"It  was  too  bad  about  Buford  Clarke,  wasn't  it?" 
said  Constance.  "I  heard  about  his  being  killed  in 
the  war." 

Sharland  did  not  answer.  He  had  stopped  laugh- 
ing. His  face  grew  pale  and  harder.  He  moved 
nervously  in  his  chair,  holding  his  cigarette  in  his 
hand,  and  staring  at  the  end  of  it  unseeingly.  Then 
he  got  up  and  walked  about  the  room.  He  threw 
his  cigarette  into  thQ  fire,  and  reached  into  his 
pocket  for  another.  Constance  had  known  men  who 
had  been  in  the  war  to  be  unwilling  to  mention  its 
casualties.  She  did  not  refer  to  Buford  Clarke 


SUPPORT  71 

again,  but  spoke  of  meeting  some  of  the  old  college 
friends  on  the  street  in  New  York.  "I  wish  that 
you  had  looked  me  up  when  you  went  to  France," 
she  said. 

"I  intended  to,"  he  answered  as  if  relieved.  "I 
got  your  address  from  your  mother.  But  you  were 
in  Yonkers  then,  I  think;  and  my  detachment  was 
ordered  on  board  ship  earlier  than  I  expected." 

The  talk  drifted  to  post-war  conditions,  the  high 
prices,  the  political  situation,  the  European  turmoil. 
There  was  nothing  showy  or  sparkling  about  Shar- 
land,  but  he  was  far  from  dull  or  stolid.  Constance 
felt  the  stimulus  of  the  quick  give  and  take  of  easy 
and  impersonal  conversation.  She  was  grateful  to 
Alison  for  not  asking  questions,  and  for  not  making 
an  evident  effort  to  avoid  dangerous  topics.  His 
talk  was  chiefly  of  the  past,  six  years  remote,  or  of 
the  immediate  present.  Of  the  time  in  between,  and 
of  Frank  Moffatt,  he  did  not  seem  to  think. 

They  spoke  of  the  way  in  which  Blanchard  had 
grown — or  spread  out — since  Constance's  departure. 
"You  must  come  out  in  my  car,"  said  Sharland,  "and 
see  how  the  Belmont  addition  has  improved.  It's 
strange  that  no  one  had  thought  of  making  that 
strip  of  land  into  a  park  and  home  site." 

"I'd  like  to  go."  Constance  was  overjoyed  to  be 
asked.  She  wanted  to  get  out,  away  from  the  irri- 
tations at  home — to  be  away  from  women  for  a 
while.  Men  (if  they  were  not  one's  fathers  and 
brothers,  she  interpolated  with  a  mental  glint  of 
humor)  were  more  interesting,  less  personal,  more 


72  SUPPORT 

companionable  than  women.  It  was  good  of  Alison 
to  want  to  take  her  out. 

"I  remember  how  you  used  to  read  plays,"  said  the 
man.  "It  was  a  sort  of  fad — or  shall  I  say  passion? — 
with  you.  Are  you  just  as  much  interested  in  them 
now?" 

"Yes,"  she  returned.  "Of  course  when  I  was  in 
New  York,  I  went  to  see  a  good  many;  but  I  always 
liked  to  read  them,  too.  I  didn't  always  go  to  the 
kind  that  I  was  most  interested  in." 

"I  have  quite  a  collection.  You  got  me  started 
at  buying  them,  I  think.  I  got  a  lot  when  I  was 
Across,"  he  added.  "Perhaps  I  have  some  that  you 
haven't  read.  I'd  like  to  bring  some  over." 

"I'd  enjoy  that  immensely,"  Constance  cried.  He 
did  not  seem  afraid  of  her.  Her  heart  warmed  to- 
ward him. 

"I'll  call  up  in  a  few  days,  and  arrange  to  bring 
over  a  volume  or  two.  We  can  read  them  aloud," 
he  said;  "that  is,  if  you  can  stand  my  unemotional 
rendering." 

"I  know  your  rendering,"  she  smiled.  "I  can 
stand  it  very  well."  She  and  Alison  had  often 
taken  a  book  with  them  when  they  had  gone  out  on 
a  picnic  together,  in  college  times,  or  after. 

They  went  on  talking  about  matters  of  no  great 
importance.  Sharland  inquired  about  the  elder  Fen- 
tons  and  Rose;  touched  easily  and  briefly  upon  the 
health  and  diversions  of  his  mother  and  sisters.  At 
ten  o'clock,  Constance  brought  in  chocolate  and 
sandwiches.  Sharland  departed  at  a  seemly  hour. 


SUPPORT  73 

It  had  been  a  quiet  and  non-significant  evening,  but 
it  comforted  Constance  to  have  this  scrap  of  mas- 
culine attention,  after  the  neglect  and  humiliation 
which  she  had  suffered.  Her  acquaintance  with  Ali- 
son, cautiously  pursued  to  avoid  misunderstanding, 
would  be  a  welcome  relaxation,  and  would  help  her 
toward  a  readjustment  which  she  realized  more  and 
more  might  be  painful  and  difficult. 


In  the  sitting-room,  her  father  and  mother  were 
reading,  one  on  each  side  of  the  sputtering  gas-lamp. 
Her  mother  laid  down  her  magazine.  "Has  Alison 
gone?"  she  said.  "He  seems  like  a  nice  young  man, 
doesn't  he?" 

Constance  assented,  yawning.  "I  think  he's  im- 
proved," she  said  casually. 

"He  doesn't  seem  to  get  married,"  Mrs.  Fenton 
went  on.  Marriage  was,  of  course,  the  immediate 
topic  of  interest  in  connection  with  a  "nice"  young 
man.  "He  had  an  affair  of  some  kind  with  a  girl 
who's  moved  away  from  here  now.  I  don't  think 
you  ever  knew  her — Hilda  Farrar,  her  name  was." 
Constance  made  a  gesture  of  negation.  "I  never 
understood  just  what  the  situation  was.  I  only 
heard  vaguely  about  it.  She  committed  suicide,  I 
think,  after  she  left  here.  Or  no !  maybe  it  was  her 
cousin  who  committed  suicide.  They  had  names 
something  alike.  Fred,  which  one  was  it  that  killed 
herself?" 


74  SUPPORT 

"Eh?"  Mr.  Fenton  tore  himself  away  from  his 
paper.  "What's  that,  Addie?"  He  took  off  his 
glasses  and  peered  around  the  lamp. 

"I  was  asking  who  it  was  that  committed  suicide 
— was  it  that  Hilda  Farrar  that  moved  away,  or  was 
it  someone  else?" 

Mr.  Fenton  frowned  heavily.  "Farrar — Farrar — 
I  don't  know  any  Farrars,"  he  began. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  do,  Fred,"  Mrs.  Fenton  rejoined 
with  impatience.  "They  lived  in  that  red  brick 
Colonial  house  in  Gifford  Place — the  one  that  Henry 
Lowden  built  and  then  had  to  seil  when  he  got  into 
that  difficulty  over  the  waterworks  bonds.  It  went 
so  cheaply — I  forget  what  the  sum  was — how  many 
thousands — but  you  said  then  that  you  wished  you 
had  the  money  to  invest.  Mr.  Farrar  bought  it, 
and  he " 

"Oh,  Farrar!  Oh,  yes,  yes!  Of  course  I  remem- 
ber him.  He  had  several  girls  in  his  family,  didn't 
he?  They  moved  away  about  three  years  ago — or 
was  it  four?  It  may  have  been  four " 

Constance  was  grateful  that  her  mother  did  not 
debate  the  question  of  time.  "Was  it  one  of  his 
girls  that  committed  suicide  or  was  it  that  cousin 
who  used  to  live  with  them — a  thin,  big-eyed  kind 
of  girl?" 

"Why,  I  don't  know,  Addie.  I  remember  hearing 
something  of  the  sort,  but  I  never  got  it  straight, 
and  I  haven't  thought  of  it  since.  Queer  duck,  Far- 
rar; red-haired  fellow — sort  of  self-important."  Mr. 
Fenton  went  back  to  his  reading. 


SUPPORT  75 

"Did  you  turn  out  the  light  in  the  parlor?"  Mrs. 
Fenton  asked. 

"Yes.  I'm  going  upstairs."  Constance  felt  sur- 
prisingly little  interest  in  Sharland's  romance,  if 
such  it  had  been ;  but  she  resolved  to  ask  Sally  some- 
time what  she  knew  of  a  Farrar  girl.  It  really  didn't 
matter,  Constance  told  herself.  Her  regard  for 
Alison  was  merely  superficial — a  present  distraction 
from  her  unsatisfying  life  here  in  her  old  home. 


Having  cautiously  ascertained,  over  the  telephone, 
that  Griffith  Rathvon  was  occupied  from  four  to  six 
with  an  experimental  psychology  seminar,  Con- 
stance went  to  call  on  Sally.  She  found  callers  there, 
people  whom  she  knew ;  and  was  glad  to  be  diverted 
by  their  talk.  She  must  be  careful,  she  told  herself 
again,  not  to  bore  Sally  with  her  troubles.  That 
evening  Mary  Foster  came  to  call  on  Constance,  and 
the  next  day  Professor  and  Mrs.  Clarges  came ;  they 
were  old  friends  of  the  Fentons.  Constance  saw 
almost  nothing  of  Herman  Schelling.  "Rose  keeps 
him  out  of  sight,"  Mrs.  Fenton  explained.  "She 
knows  we  don't  want  to  see  him." 

Mrs.  Greening  had  come  to  the  house  again,  and 
Constance  had  discovered  that  Honoria's  little  girl 
was  named  Suzanne.  "Lockwood,  her  last  name  is," 
said  Mrs.  Greening;  "but  we  hardly  ever  think  of  it. 
I  always  think  of  her  as  a  Blake." 

Constance  had  arranged  to  give  her  mother  a  cer- 


76  SUPPORT 

tain  liberal  sum  "for  board,"  as  she  said,  but  in 
reality  to  pay  the  grocery  bills  for  the  family.  From 
time  to  time,  other  demands  for  money  presented 
themselves.  Her  desire  to  make  the  house  more  pre- 
sentable had  been  held  in  abeyance. 

One  morning,  Mrs.  Fenton  was  sweeping  the  sit- 
ting-room, and  Constance  paused  at  the  door  on  her 
way  upstairs.  The  old  carpet  (Constance  could  not 
figure  just  how  old  it  was)  looked  scandalously 
shabby.  Accustomed  to  the  freshness  of  her  own 
apartment,  Constance  felt  a  twinge  of  distaste  every 
time  that  she  looked  at  the  worn  and  faded  rug. 
"What  a  shame  that  we  women  care  so  much  about 
such  things,"  she  thought.  "Men  have  a  lofty  dis- 
regard of  furnishings  and  fol-de-rols." 

"Oh,  dear!"  murmured  Mrs.  Fenton,  "there's  an- 
other rip  in  that  seam.  Those  threads  are  worn 
through."  She  put  down  her  carpet  sweeper  and 
went  to  get  a  needle  and  thread  from  her  work- 
basket.  Constance  watched  her  while  she  searched 
for  a  thimble,  put  on  her  glasses,  and  knelt  to  mend 
the  rip.  Her  finely  shaped  hands,  reddened  with 
kitchen  work,  fumbled  at  the  gaping  seam.  The 
daughter  was  moved  with  indignation  and  distress. 

"Why  do  you  bother  with  that,  mother?"  she  said, 
an  impatient  line  showing  in  her  forehead. 

Her  mother  looked  up  over  her  glasses.  "Why,  I 
have  to  bother  with  it,"  she  answered  wonderingly. 
"I  can't  let  it  go  ragged,  can  I?" 

"It  couldn't  look  much  worse,"  was  Constance's 
reckless  reply. 


SUPPORT  77 

"It  would  look  worse  if  it  were  in  tatters."  Mrs. 
Fenton  was  laboriously  taking  stitches  in  the  harsh 
material  of  the  rug. 

"It's  almost  that  now.  Mother,  listen,"  cried 
Constance.  "I'll  get  a  new  rug  for  this  room." 

"Oh,  but,  Connie" — Mrs.  Fenton,  crouching  on 
the  floor,  stared  up  at  her  daughter — "there's  such 
a  lot  to  buy;  you  do  so  much."  Her  protest  was 
weak. 

"A  little  more  won't  hurt  me,"  Constance  re- 
turned. Even  so,  she  was  reluctant  to  spend  the 
money.  She  had  a  considerable  sum  accumulated 
from  the  sale  of  her  less  valued  furnishings,  and 
from  her  recent  allowance  from  Frank.  She  had 
hoarded  it  carefully  and  wanted  to  keep  it  by  her — 
for  some  possible  unexpected  adventure,  she  did  not 
know  what.  And  there  were  a  good  many  things 
that  she  wanted  and  needed.  Besides,  she  longed  to 
get  some  new  clothes  for  her  sister.  But  a  sitting- 
room  rug  was  the  center  of  the  household.  Every- 
body that  came  in  trod  upon  it,  noted  it  consciously 
or  unconsciously  as  an  adornment  or  a  detriment  to 
the  appearance  of  the  room.  It  signified  out- 
spokenly either  poverty  or  prosperity,  humiliation 
or  self-respect.  "We'll  have  to  have  a  new  one," 
Constance  reiterated.  "We  positively  can't  go  on 
with  this  one;  it's  too  disgraceful." 

"I'm  sorry,  Constance."  Mrs.  Fenton's  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  She  sought  vainly  for  a  handkerchief, 
till  Constance  stepped  forward  and  supplied  one. 
"I'm  sorry  that  you  haven't  a  better  home  to  come 


78  SUPPORT 

to.  It's  too  bad  that  you  have  to  come  back  to  a 
shabby  run-down  place — with  no  background  for 

you — no "  Her  voice  broke.  She  wiped  her 

eyes  again,  holding  her  glasses  hi  her  hand. 

"Mother,  you  know  I  didn't  mean  anything  like 
that."  Constance  felt  the  concealed  reproach  for 
the  circumstance  which  had  brought  her  here  when 
she  might  be  in  a  home  of  her  own.  "I  merely  meant 
that  it  seemed  more  necessary  to  get  the  rug  than 
some  other  things.  Come  on,  don't  cry.  Get  up 
and  come  with  me."  She  pulled  at  her  mother's 
arm,  and  took  the  needle  away,  trying  to  laugh. 
"Hurry  up.  We're  going  right  down  town  and  pick 
out  a  rug — now,  this  minute." 

"Oh,  Connie!  Do  you  think  you  ought  to?"  Mrs. 
Fenton  staggered  to  her  feet,  looking  doubtfully  at 
her  daughter. 

"Yes.  I  ought  to."  Constance  was  urgent.  "Get 
on  your  suit  and  we'll  go." 

With  visible  relief,  Mrs.  Fenton  hastened  away 
to  change  her  clothes.  Constance  was  thinking  as 
she  put  on  her  hat  and  found  a  clean  pair  of  gloves. 
"It  won't  make  so  much  difference  in  the  long  run. 
I  can  make  it  up  hi  some  other  way,  and  the  house 
will  look  a  lot  better.  I  ought  to  have  sent  on  my 
sitting-room  rug  instead  of  selling  it.  I  don't  know 
what  I  was  thinking  of.  I'll  really  have  to  spend 
some  money  on  Rose.  She  must  have  a  good-look- 
ing evening  coat.  She  can't  have  a  good  time  with- 
out it.  If  that  young  Corden  should  take  to  asking 
her  again — maybe  he  will,  if  she  hasn't  completely 


SUPPORT  79 

ruined  her  chances  with  him  by  going  with. Herman 
Schelling." 

On  the  way  down  town  she  discussed  with  her 
mother  the  color  of  the  rug.  At  the  same  time, 
Constance  was  wondering  whether  it  would  be 
cheaper  to  buy  a  coat  for  Rose  or  to  have  one  made. 
In  a  window  she  saw  just  the  right  one — dull-blue 
velvet  with  a  squirrel  collar.  It  was  exactly  what 
Rose  ought  to  have.  Well,  she  would  see. 

The  rug  cost  more  than  she  liked  to  spend,  and 
then  it  was  hardly  what  she  wanted.  Still,  it  was 
good  and  inoffensive;  it  would  give  neatness  and 
dignity  to  the  room.  Constance  breathed  more 
easily  when  the  rug  had  come  and  was  lying  on  the 
floor  in  the  cheerful  autumn  sunshine.  "This  is 
about  the  only  big  expense  I'll  have  now,  except 
Rose's  coat,"  she  said.  "I  can  do  over  her  best  even- 
ing dress  so  that  it  will  look  like  new." 

But  she  had  reckoned  without  King  Winter.  A 
rumor  and  a  murmur  about  the  coal  supply  began 
to  reach  her  ears.  Coal  had  to  be  bought — tons  of 
it — and  the  price  was  shocking.  Mr.  Fenton  had  a 
little  money  from  some  interest  which  had  come  in ; 
but  it  was  not  enough,  by  a  long  way.  "It  takes  such 
a  lot,  even  for  a  few  tons,"  Mrs.  Fenton  said  fret- 
fully. "Sister  Claudia  usually  sends  me  a  check  at 
this  time,  but  she  hasn't  yet;  and  Wilbur  always 
sends  something  for  coal — " 

"I  suppose,"  thought  Constance,  "he's  counting 
on  my  being  here.  I'll  make  up  the  rest,"  she  added 
aloud. 


80  SUPPORT 

"I  hate  to  have  you  do  that,  Connie."  Mrs.  Fen- 
ton  made  her  usual  protest.  But  as  usual  she  looked 
relieved. 

Constance  went  to  get  her  check-book.  "It's  a 
good  thing  that  I'm  able  to  produce  it,"  she  mut- 
tered ;  "or  that  Frank  is,  rather."  The  thought  came 
to  her:  "When  Frank  married  me,  he  didn't  do  it 
so  that  he  might  have  the  privilege  of  paying  coal 
bills  and  buying  rugs  and  groceries  for  my  family." 
She  stopped  with  the  check-book  in  her  hand,  her 
brows  wrinkled,  her  lips  pursed.  "It  doesn't  seem 
fair,  somehow.  But  I  don't  see  what  I  can  do.  I've 
got  into  this  situation  and  I  don't  see  how  to  get 
out.  The  family  have  to  have  things."  As  she  went 
through  the  hall  she  found  herself  saying  under  her 
breath,  "Poor  Frank!" 

The  coal  bill  was  paid,  but  Constance  had  begun 
to  consider  more  carefully  than  she  had  ever  done 
the  exact  implications  of  a  monthly  check  called 
alimony. 


She  had  been  so  occupied  with  family  affairs  that 
she  had  not  thought  much  about  Alison  Sharland. 
He  telephoned  one  evening,  saying,  "Do  you  want 
to  take  a  walk  along  the  Lake  shore  this  evening? 
There's  a  full  moon  now,  and  it  isn't  cold." 

"I'd  love  it,"  she  said  happily. 

"It  will  be  like  old  times,  won't  it?  I'll  call  about 
half  past  eight." 

"I'll  be  ready."     Constance  let  her  mind  dwell 


SUPPORT  81 

upon  the  old  days,  seven  or  eight  years  before,  when 
she  and  her  group  had  been  constantly  occupied  with 
outings  and  gaieties  of  one  kind  or  another.  She 
and  Alison  had  usually  gone  together.  The  group 
had  not  been  a  sentimental  one;  each  person  in  it 
had  been  fairly  well  satisfied  with  the  company  of 
any  other.  But  it  was  convenient  for  each  young 
man  to  be  definitely  responsible  for  some  individual 
girl.  Sally  Needham  had  become  increasingly  an- 
noyed that  the  others  managed  not  to  include  her 
professor  in  their  set,  and  she  began  making  ex- 
cuses, so  that  she  gradually  ceased  to  belong  to  the 
circle.  Then  one  or  another  married  or  departed. 
Alison  and  Constance  had  continued  going  about  to- 
gether in  a  desultory  way.  Then  Frank  Moffatt 
had  come  to  town,  a  young  business  man  "repre- 
senting" a  firm  which  dealt  in  electrical  supplies. 
He  had  a  hearty  engaging  way,  a  ringing  laugh,  a 
stock  of  amusing  stories.  He  and  Constance  had 
liked  each  other;  he  had  begun  coming  to  the  house 
and  taking  her  motoring  and  to  the  theater. 

Probably  everybody  looks  back  with  bewilderment 
to  the  pre-matrimonial  period.  It  is  difficult,  if  not 
impossible,  to  account  for  one's  emotions  and  ac- 
tions. It  is  a  state  of  trance,  a  hypnotic  condition 
never  afterward  fully  remembered,  and  assuredly 
never  accounted  for.  Why  that  particular — often 
inconsequent — person  should  assume  such  gigantic 
proportions  on  one's  horizon,  it  is  impossible  to  ex- 
plain. Even  when  the  marriage  is  not  actually  un- 
happy, when  the  two  people  muddle  along  through 


82  SUPPORT 

the  storm  and  stress  of  married  life  with  not  too 
much  misery  and  not  too  active  a  dislike  for  each 
other,  there  is  still  the  secret  question,  "Why  did 
I  imagine  him  [her]  so  different  from  everybody 
else?  What  could  have  been  the  matter  with  me, 
anyhow?" 

Constance  surveyed  the  past  with  this  question- 
ing frame  of  mind.  "If  Frank  hadn't  happened 
along,"  she  thought,  "and  Alison  and  I  had  gone  on 
liking  each  other,  would  it  have  turned  out  just  the 
same?  Should  we  have  found  ourselves  'incompat- 
ible/ got  into  complications,  separated,  been  di- 
vorced?" Marriage  with  any  other  man  might  not 
have  been  any  more  successful  than  marriage  with 
Frank.  She  entertained  a  passing  suspicion  that 
there  might  be  in  her  some  mental  quality,  not  self- 
comprehended,  which  made  it  impossible  for  her  to 
be  wise  or  happy  hi  marriage.  It  was  a  humiliating 
thought. 

When  Alison  called,  Rose  and  Schelling  were  in 
the  drawing-room;  so  there  was  nothing  to  do  but 
take  Alison  into  the  sitting-room  where  Mr.  Fenton 
was  reading.  Mrs.  Fenton  was  upstairs  for  the 
moment. 

Mr.  Fenton  rose  and  shook  hands  with  the  caller. 
There  were  mutual  inquiries,  a  display  of  interest 
and  approbation  on  the  one  side,  and  of  respect  on 
the  other,  which  was  a  marked  contrast  to  the  way 
in  which  Schelling  behaved  and  was  regarded.  Con- 
stance had  a  twinge  of  pity  for  Rose's  foolishness, 
and  a  corresponding  impulse  of  satisfaction  for  her 


SUPPORT  83 

own  wisdom  in  bringing  to  the  house  such  an  unim- 
peachable man. 

When  she  had  put  on  her  wraps,  she  and  Sharland 
took  a  leisurely  pace  toward  the  Lake,  talking  of 
the  growth  of  the  State  College,  the  increased  pros- 
perity of  Blanchard.  The  street  lamps  obscured  the 
moon  until  the  strollers  struck  through  the  college 
grounds  and  into  the  paths,  edged  with  shrubbery 
and  dwarf  spruces,  which  brought  .them  to  the  edge 
of  the  Lake.  Here  the  artificial  lights  were  only 
pale  scattered  sparks  under  the  white  brilliance  of 
the  moon. 

It  was  a  night  for  romance  and  adventure,  Con- 
stance thought.  But  as  an  adventure,  this  stroll 
was  mild  enough,  for  Sharland  did  not  relax  the 
even,  cool  friendliness  which  had  been  his  partis  pris 
from  the  first.  Even  so,  the  loneliness  and  the 
wretchedness  of  the  last  year  gave  her  a  flattered 
feeling  in  being  chosen  for  a  man's  companionship. 
It  was  silly,  but  one  felt  like  that.  Women  had 
always  lived  for  men's  attentions,  though  it  was  not 
likely  that  they  would  continue  to  do  so.  They 
were  approaching  a  state  where  they  were  less  de- 
pendent on  men  for  their  success  and  happiness. 
Constance  smiled  to  think  that  she  should  be  medi- 
tating on  the  general  status  of  woman  while  she  wag 
walking  in  the  moonlight  with  an  old  flame.  That 
showed  how  far  behind  she  had  left  her  youth,  and 
how  hard  it  was  to  get  out  of  thinking  of  herself  as 
"an  old  married  woman." 

They  stood  looking  out  upon  the  silver  track 


84  SUPPORT 

which  the  moon  left  across  the  Lake.  "It's  a  good 
deal  the  same  as  it  used  to  be,"  said  Constance,  in- 
dicating the  farther  side  of  the  curved  bay,  "except 
in  the  middle,  where  it's  built  in.  It  used  to  be  just 
park  there,  you  remember?" 

"It's  a  very  desirable  section  now.  I  own  a  lot  in 
it,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  do  you?"  Constance  felt  it  incumbent  upon 
her  to  be  interested. 

"I  thought  of  putting  a  house  up  there,"  he  con- 
tinued. 

Had  he  indeed?  For  Hilda  Farrar?  Constance 
wondered.  "It  would  have  been  a  delightful  situa- 
tion for  one,"  she  said  politely. 

"It  would,"  he  answered.  "But  something  hap- 
pened and  I  changed  my  mind." 

"One  does."  Constance  kept  her  tone  careless. 
"Perhaps  you  may  change  it  again  and  really  build 
this  time." 

"I  may.  I  should  like  a  place  of  my  own,"  he 
went  on,  after  a  pause.  "Every  little  while  I 
threaten  to  build  me  a  bachelor's  hall  and  have  a 
Japanese  man  to  take  cafe  of  it.  But  then  mother 
objects  so  strenuously  that  I  give  it  up." 

"What  does  she  object  to — the  bachelor's  hall  or 
the  Japanese  man?" 

"Both,  I  should  say.  She  wants  me  to  stay  on 
with  her  and  Katherine.  I  tell  her  that  she  can't 
expect  me  to  stay  there  forever.  I  may  find  a  wife." 
He  laughed  as  at  a  mild  piece  of  humor. 

"And  does  she  object  to  that,  too?"    Constance 


SUPPORT  85 

caught  herself  as  her  foot  slipped  on  a  slight  de- 
clivity. 

Sharland  took  hold  of  her  arm  to  steady  her.  "I 
think  she  could  endure  that,"  he  replied,  "because 
it  would  seem  more  normal  than  setting  up  a  place 
by  myself." 

"I  don't  see  why  it  should,"  said  Constance. 
"People  often  want  homes  of  their  own,  even  if 
they  aren't  married." 

"That's  true."  Sharland  let  go  of  her  arm.  "It 
isn't  very  easy,  living  with  your  own  family,  after 
you've  grown  to  a  state  of  mental  independence, 
is  it?" 

Constance  had  an  impulse  to  give  explosive  as- 
sent to  his  remark,  but  she  checked  herself.  She 
had  a  feeling  that  he  might  be  sounding  her  to  find 
out  how  she  got  on  with  the  Fentons.  "It  has  its 
drawbacks,"  she  said.  "But  I  should  think  that 
since  you're  free  to  do  as  you  like,  you  might  go  on 
and  build  your  house  and  let  your  family  get  recon- 
ciled to  it." 

"You  encourage  me  too  much,"  he  laughed.  "I 
shall  probably  go  and  do  it.  It  would  be  a  diver- 
sion to  build  a  house  and  furnish  it." 

"You  aren't  likely  to  need  the  diversion,"  she 
replied.  "Do  you  ever  go  to  your  fraternity  house 
any  more?" 

"Not  very  often.  There  are  such  a  lot  of  cubs 
and  flappers  there  that  they  make  me  feel  like 
Father  Time.  I  go  to  a  dance  there  two  or  three 
times  a  year,  and  that's  about  all.  I  like  babies,  and 


86  SUPPORT 

I  like  grown  folks,  but  I  can't  say  I'm  crazy  over 
the  strange  beings  one  sees  nowadays  in  the  inter- 
mediate stage." 

"Some  of  them  are  a  shock  to  one's  nerves,"  she 
admitted.  "They  seem  just  as  extreme  here  as  in 
the  city." 

"They're  worse,  I  think,"  he  answered.  "They're 
atrocious.  But  don't  get  me  started  on  that  topic." 
There  was  a  pause.  Constance  did  not  know  what 
his  train  of  thought  had  been,  to  lead  up  to  his 
next  subject  of  comment.  "I've  seen  your  sister 
Rose  once  or  twice  recently,"  he  said.  "She  was 
only  a  little  girl,  fourteen  or  so,  when  I  used  to  be 
going  to  your  house.  She's  grown  to  be  a  stunning 
girl,  hasn't  she?" 

"Yes,  she's  very  good-looking,"  Constance  agreed. 

"Do  you  mind  my  asking  who  that  heavy-looking 
man  is  that  I've  seen  her  with?  It  isn't  that  Sch ell- 
ing  who  has  the  garage  down  on  Clinton  Street, 
is  it?" 

"I — I  think  it  is,"  Constance  faltered.  The  cour- 
teously restrained  tone  in  which  Sharland  spoke 
hinted  at  the  extreme  undesirability  of  Schelling. 

"I  thought  it  might  be,"  he  said,  "but  I — couldn't 
be  sure."  She  knew  he  meant  to  say,  "I  couldn't 
believe  it." 

"I  don't  know  him  at  all,"  Constance  responded. 
"I've  merely  met  him.  Do  you  know  him?"  she  in- 
quired with  an  effort. 

"Not  in  the  least."  Sharland's  tone  implied  that 
he  and  Schelling  moved  in  different  circles;  it  also 


SUPPORT  87 

suggested  that  he  was  not  going  to  say  what  he 
thought.  Constance  dared  not  make  any  farther 
comment  concerning  her  sister's  friendship  with  the 
German. 

She  was  disturbed  by  the  reference  to  Rose  and 
by  Sharland's  unspoken  condemnation.  Her  exhila- 
ration was  gone.  Decidedly  it  was  different  from 
the  old  days.  There  was  neither  the  gay  disregard 
of  all  but  the  stimulation  of  the  moment;  nor  the 
sentimental  consciousness  that  the  touch  of  a  hand 
might  exalt  a  quiet  moonlight  walk  into  romance. 


CHAPTER  VI 
1 

CONSTANCE  was  getting  more  and  more  oriented 
to  her  new  life.  She  had  gone  to  church  and  had 
not  suffered  from  the  ordeal.  A  number  of  people 
had  spoken  to  her,  and  one  or  two  had  inquired 
vaguely,  "Are  you  staying  long?"  "Is  Mr.  Moffatt 
with  you?"  She  had  replied,  "Yes,  quite  a  while,  I 
think."  "No,  he's  still  in  the  East."  She  was  glad 
that  the  experience  had  not  been  more  embarrass- 
ing; but  as  far  as  church  itself  was  concerned,  she 
found  it  entirely  wearisome.  She  had  seldom  gone 
to  church  in  New  York.  Frank  always  wanted  a 
late  breakfast  on  Sunday — with  liver  and  bacon — 
and  then  there  were  other  things  to  do.  She  re- 
solved not  to  go  oftener  than  she  could  help,  here 
in  Blanchard.  Rose  didn't  go  unless  she  felt  like 
it.  She  was  usually  off  with  Schelling,  her  mother 
explained  miserably;  they  went  motoring  and  took 
a  lunch  along,  or  they  went  out  to  the  Nuttings' 
cottage  on  the  far  Lake  (the  Nuttings  spent  the 
week-ends  there  till  after  Thanksgiving),  or  they 
drove  to  some  little  town  and  had  dinner  there. 

"These  automobiles  do  an  awful  lot  of  damage," 
Mrs.  Fenton  remarked. 

88 


SUPPORT  89 

"I  dare  say  they  do,  in  that  way,"  assented  Con- 
stance. "They  give  people  a  laxness  and  freedom 
that  they've  never  had  before." 

Just  because  Rose  was  gone  so  much,  Constance 
felt  it  incumbent  upon  her  to  stay  at  home  with 
her  father  and  mother.  Mr.  Fenton  was  fretful  if 
she  went  out. 


"Wilbur  says  that  he  and  Eleanor  will  be  down 
for  Sunday,"  said  Mrs.  Fenton,  folding  her  letter 
nervously.  There  was  an  immediate  air  of  tension 
in  the  house.  "Eleanor's  so  critical,"  the  older  lady 
sighed.  "She's  an  awfully  good  housekeeper,  you 
know,  and  of  course  she  doesn't  have  anyone  but 
herself  and  Wilbur  to  do  for.  I  wish  I'd  had  the 
blankets  on  the  spare-room  bed  washed  and  the 
doors  scrubbed  where  the  fingermarks  show  on  the 
paint,  and  some  other  things  done.  I  don't  feel  as 
if  I  could  do  them." 

"Couldn't  we  get  Mrs.  Greening  to  come  over  for 
a  few  hours?"  Constance  suggested. 

"Perhaps  we  could."  Mrs.  Fenton  looked  hope- 
ful. "But  she  hasn't  any  telephone.  It's  a  nuisance." 

"I'll  walk  over  there  to-night  after  dinner,"  Con- 
stance said,  "and  perhaps  she  can  come  to-morrow 
morning." 

"I  wish  you  would,  but  it's  a  bother  for  you,  I 
know,"  said  Mrs.  Fenton. 

"I'd  like  the  walk."  Immediately  after  dinner, 
Constance  went  over  to  West  Thompson  street,  fol- 


90  SUPPORT 

lowing  her  mother's  directions,  and  sought  for  "the 
third  house  from  the  corner  of  Birdsall  Street,  a  kind 
of  small  dingy  gray  house." 

At  her  knock,  a  voice  called,  "Come  in." 

Constance  turned  the  knob  and  walked  into  a 
lighted  sitting-room,  where  a  tiny  sheet-iron  stove 
was  sending  out  too  much  heat.  Mrs.  Greening  was 
sitting  beside  a  table,  with  little  Suzanne  on  her 
lap.  "Oh,  it's  you,  Mrs.  Moffatt,"  she  said,  half 
starting  up.  Constance  waved  her  back.  "I  was  just 
undressing  Suzanne,  now  that  I've  got  the  other 
children  to  bed,"  Mrs.  Greening  said,  looking  at  her 
caller.  "I  like  to  hold  her  on  my  lap  at  night,  so 
that  she'll  feel  she's  got  somebody.  She's  kind  of 
put  upon  during  the  day."  Mrs.  Greening  was  in 
the  habit  of  leaving  Suzanne  with  a  neighbor  woman 
while  she  was  away  at  work. 

Mrs.  Moffatt  stood  looking  down  at  the  little  girl 
1 — at  the  colorless  face,  and  the  halo  of  straw-colored 
hair  with  the  lamp-light  shining  through  it.  She 
thought  how  she  had  longed  to  hold  and  hug  Sally 
Rathvon's  daughter.  Now  she  felt  the  same  im- 
pulse, though  it  was  gentler,  less  greedy,  because 
this  child  was  frailer  and  more  elusive.  She  could 
hardly  restrain  herself  from  catching  up  the  little 
thing  in  her  arms.  "I  never  felt  quite  like  this  be- 
fore," she  said  to  herself.  Mrs.  Greening  went  on, 
taking  off  the  child's  dress  over  its  head.  Her  work- 
worn  hands  were  tender  in  their  touch.  "Oh,  let  her 
sit  on  my  lap!"  cried  Constance. 

Mrs.  Greening  looked  dubious.    "She  doesn't  take 


SUPPORT  91 

to  strangers.  Do  you  want  to  go  to  this  lady,  Su- 
zanne?" 

Tugging  at  her  stocking,  the  child  stared  thought- 
fully at  the  "lady." 

"Do  you  want  to  come  to  me,  sweetheart?"  Con- 
stance found  that  she  had  not  used  the  saccharine 
tone  usually  employed  in  luring  children,  but  a  deep 
and  fervent  voice  which  gave  a  sudden  outpouring 
of  her  own  loneliness,  her  own  quick  passion  for  this 
particular  child. 

Suzanne  nodded.  Constance  lifted  her  and  took 
her  on  her  knees.  The  three-year-old  girl  was  too 
small  for  her  age.  The  cheek  which  she  rubbed 
against  the  visitor's  fur  neckpiece  was  not  bright 
enough;  her  hand,  shell- white  and  delicately  fin- 
gered, was  uncertain  in  its  reach  and  in  its  grasp. 
"She  needs  something,"  thought  Constance.  "Is  she 
well?"  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"Yes,  usually,"  Mrs.  Greening  answered.  "She 
doesn't  look  very  strong,  but  she's  all  right.  It's 
hard  to  make  her  eat  enough." 

Constance,  her  hand  and  arm  around  Suzanne's 
warm  body,  felt  a  gush  of  joy  in  cherishing  the  little 
thing.  She  went  on  undressing  her,  fumbling  with 
one  hand  at  the  white  stockings,  unbuttoning  the 
petticoat  yoke.  Mrs.  Greening  stood  holding  a 
coarse  gray  flannelette  nightgown.  Constance  let 
her  fingers  slide  over  the  fair  translucent  skin  of  the 
slender  legs  and  arms,  the  adorable  line  of  the  shoul- 
der. The  nightgown  went  on,  was  buttoned,  cuddled 
around  the  little  girl's  feet.  "There!"  Constance 


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gave  a  last  softly  convulsive  pressure  to  the  form 
in  her  arms,  and  suffered  Mrs.  Greening  to  take  the 
baby  back  upon  her  lap.  She  told  her  errand  briefly. 

"I  can  come  for  two  hours,  anyhow,"  Mrs.  Green- 
ing consented. 

Mrs.  Moffatt  rose.  She  nodded  toward  the  child. 
"Bring  her  along  the  next  time  you  come — I  mean, 
when  you  come  on  Monday,"  she  said  as  carelessly 
as  she  could.  She  scarcely  wanted  to  reveal  how 
much  she  meant  what  she  said. 

Mrs.  Greening  looked  pleased,  but  hesitant.  "I 
might  do  that — if  your  mother — if  Suzanne  wouldn't 
be  a  bother." 

"She  wouldn't.  I'd  love  to  have  her."  Constance 
could  not  speak  for  her  mother. 

"Well,  I  will." 

Constance  went  away,  under  the  stars,  thinking 
of  Suzanne.  She  took  pride  in  the  fact  that  the 
child  had  come  to  her.  "She  doesn't  take  to 
strangers,"  Mrs.  Greening  had  said.  "I'm  not  a 
stranger,  really,"  Constance  murmured,  as  she  sur- 
veyed the  scene  in  retrospect.  "This  is  Honoria 
Blake's  little  girl." 

Honoria  Blake's  little  girl. 

How  she  had  liked  Honoria!  She  remembered 
the  time  that  someone  had  given  her  a  bag  of  pink 
striped  cinnamon  candy  sticks — the  brittle  kind  that 
snaps  and  crunches.  She  had  met  Honoria,  and 
they  had  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk  and 
eaten  it  all,  with  their  arms  around  each  other, 
snapping  and  crunching  blissfully:  a  thing  to  re- 


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member.  And  another  time,  Honoria  had  made  a 
dress  for  Constance's  doll — a  queer  boggle  of  blue 
silk  and  red  braid.  Constance  had  been  thrilled  at 
it.  She  had  kissed  Honoria 

She  wished  she  didn't  remember  things  so  vividly. 
Other  people  didn't  seem  to. 

Life  was  an  odd  affair.  Who  would  have 
thought 

Constance  drew  a  long  breath.  There  must  be 
some  plan  hi  it:  probably  there  was.  When  she 
and  Honoria  had  sat  eating  cinnamon  candy,  it  was 
already  planned,  somewhere  in  the  universe,  that 
she  should  sit  in  a  lamp-lighted  room  on  this  No- 
vember evening,  and  put  a  nightgown  on  Honoria's 
little  girl.  The  thought  gave  one  a  sense  of  awe  and 
amazement;  it  was  strange  how  things  worked  out 
and  fitted  together.  It  made  one  wonder  what  was 
planned  that  had  not  yet  been  unfolded. 


Wilbur  and  Eleanor  arrived  on  Saturday  after- 
noon. Eleanor  was  a  slight  young  woman  with  light 
hair  fluffed  out  abnormally  around  a  thin  face.  She 
spoke  in  a  high  and  penetrating  voice.  Her  obvi- 
ously home-made  clothes  excited  for  a  moment  the 
contempt  of  Constance;  until  she  recollected  that 
with  the  money  that  Wilbur  sent  home  Eleanor 
could  provide  herself  with  smarter  suits  and  dresses. 

Constance  had  seen  little  of  her  sister-in-law. 
Wilbur,  two  years  the  elder,  had  married  shortly 


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before  his  sister.  She  had  gone  East  with  Frank, 
and  had  seen  Eleanor  only  a  few  times  during  the 
one  visit  at  home. 

Eleanor  was  cool  to  Constance,  perceptibly  less 
than  friendly.  She  made  her  disapproval  evident, 
and  the  martyrdom  which  she  was  enduring  in  being 
"married  to  a  divorce."  She  talked  rapidly  to  Mrs. 
Fenton  most  of  the  time,  telling  of  the  "parties" 
which  she  had  attended  in  Caryville.  The  women 
there  were  "great  on  afternoon  affairs,"  she  said, 
because  they  liked  to  be  at  home  with  their  hus- 
bands in  the  evening. 

Mrs.  Fenton  was  pathetically  eager  to  keep  things 
pleasant,  to  conciliate  Eleanor  and  avoid  open  fric- 
tion. It  was  a  relief  when  Wilbur  and  his  wife  went 
to  the  moving  pictures  in  the  evening,  taking  Mrs. 
Fenton  along.  Schelling  was  in  the  drawing-room 
with  Rose.  Mr.  Fenton,  grumbling  about  people 
who  wanted  to  be  gadding  all  the  time,  settled  him- 
self beside  the  sitting-room  lamp.  Constance,  hav- 
ing astutely  dropped  hints  about  not  feeling  well, 
shut  herself  up  in  her  room,  and  saw  no  obligation 
to  appear  before  the  next  morning. 

Eleanor  proclaimed  her  intention  of  taking  Wil- 
bur to  the  morning  service.  "You  know  I'm  very 
High  Church,"  she  said  to  Constance. 

"Yes,  so  I've  heard."  Constance  felt  that  Eleanor 
would  have  liked  to  pursue  the  subject  of  religion, 
but  she  turned  the  talk  to  food  and  recipes;  and 
then  it  naturally  adverted  to  what  Wilbur  liked  for 
each  meal,  the  state  of  Wilbur's  digestion,  and  the 


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hypothetical  connection  between  digestion  and  eye- 
sight. 

"Won't  you  go  to  church  with  them,  Rose?" 
begged  Constance. 

"I  should  say  not,"  replied  Rose  promptly.  "I'd 
like  a  rest  from  that  little  prig  for  an  hour  or  two." 

"What  a  way  of  speaking  of  your  sister-in-law," 
Constance  reproved,  biting  her  lip. 

"I  never  chose  her.  Wilbur  may  want  her  with 
him,  but  the  rest  of  us  might  be  spared  the 
affliction." 

"Come,  now,  Rose,  we  must  be  as  nice  to  her  as 
we  can,"  the  elder  sister  remonstrated.  "Wilbur  has 
done  a  lot  for  the  family." 

"I  know  he  has,"  said  Rose  with  contrition.  "I'm 
an  ungrateful  beast.  But  I  do  hate  Eleanor,"  she 
added,  turning  away. 

So  Wilbur  and  his  wife  went  to  church  alone. 
Rose  "had  to  study,"  Constance  was  bent  on  help- 
ing her  mother  with  the  dinner,  and  Mr.  Fenton 
frankly  refused  to  stir.  "Well,  we'll  pray  for  all  of 
you,"  said  Eleanor  in  a  reverential  voice,  as  she  put 
on  her  white  cotton  gloves. 

"Don't  bother,"  called  Rose  from  the  study. 

"I  shall  have  to."  Eleanor's  tone  had  hi  it  the 
patronage  of  virtue. 

Constance,  making  lemon  pie  for  dinner,  consoled 
herself  with  the  thought  that  the  visit  was  proving 
"not  so  bad,"  and  that  it  would  soon  be  over,  with 
no  actually  painful  results. 

She  had  rejoiced  too  soon,  however.    She  found 


96  SUPPORT 

herself,  after  dinner,  cut  off  with  Wilbur  in  a  corner 
of  the  dining-room.  Wilbur  had  a  jovial  air,  quite 
out  of  keeping  with  his  usual  solemnity.  He  spoke 
in  friendly  wise  of  his  sister's  high  color  and  becom- 
ing gown.  He  praised  the  lemon  pie,  and  expressed 
surprise  that  anyone  as  artistic  and  intellectual  as 
Constance  should  know  how  to  make  a  pie  that  was 
fit  to  eat.  "You  always  were  a  good  cook,  though, 
if  I  remember  rightly,"  he  said  with  heartiness. 

"I  feel  flattered,"  said  Constance,  knowing  that 
Wilbur  usually  reserved  his  commendation  for 
Eleanor's  cooking. 

"Con,"  Wilbur  was  going  on,  "you're  a  nice  old 
girl,  if  you  do  make  a  mistake  now  and  then." 

"I'm  not  the  only  one,  I  suppose?"  Constance  re- 
turned with  a  wistful  intonation. 

"No.  We  all  make  mistakes.  I've  made  a  few, 
myself."  Wilbur  spoke  in  an  offhand  and  generous 
manner. 

Constance  marveled  at  the  admission.  "For  in- 
stance?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  could  name  several.  Going 
into  teaching  for  one  thing,"  answered  Wilbur. 
"There's  no  money  in  it." 

"It's  a  steady,  dependable  job,  and  you  have  long 
vacations."  Constance  had  heard  Wilbur  advance 
these  arguments,  and  she  now  produced  them  me- 
chanically. 

"Yes,  of  course."  There  was  a  silence.  Constance 
knew  that  Wilbur  was  leading  up  to  something;  she 
did  not  guess  what.  "But  it's  the  small  salaries 


SUPPORT  97 

that  make  one  mad.  There  isn't  any  other  job  where 
a  man  works  so  hard  that  he  doesn't  get  twice  as 
much,"  Wilbur  explained.  "And  the  demands  on 
one  are  terrific.  One  always  has  to  dress  well,  and 
his  wife  has  to  look  well,  in  order  to  go  with  the 
best  people.  That's  one  thing,  you  always  get  in 
with  the  best  people  in  town.  Eleanor  goes  every- 
where." 

"That's  nice,  Wilbur.  That's  worth  a  great  deal." 
Constance  spoke  with  as  much  ardor  as  she  could 
command.  "It  makes  up  to  her  for  some  other 
things." 

"I  suppose  so."  Wilbur  moved  his  hands  ner- 
vously in  his  coat  pockets.  "Say,  Con,"  he  burst 
you,  with  elaborate  casualness,  "you  haven't  any 
loose  cash  around,  have  you?" 

"Cash?"  answered  Constance  wonderingly. 

"Yes;  money.  Have  you  any  that  you  could 
lend?" 

"I — why,  I  don't  believe  so."  Constance  tried,  in 
a  confused  way,  to  think  how  she  could  put  him 
off. 

"You  get  a  lot,"  argued  Wilbur.  "You  get  a  good 
round  sum.  Every  month  it  comes  in,  as  regularly 
as  clockwork.  I  tell  you,  you're  pretty  lucky  to  get 
it  that  way,  month  after  month,  without  turning 
your  hand  over."  He  fixed  her  with  his  hard  blue 
eyes. 

"Lucky!"  The  woman  spoke  with  sudden  bitter- 
ness. "You  haven't  always  given  me  credit  for 
being  lucky  in  this  particular  matter." 


98  SUPPORT 

Wilbur  hedged.  "Well,  of  course,  it's  too  bad  that 
you  and  Frank  didn't  make  a  go  of  it.  But  as  long 
as  you  didn't,  and  things  went  as  they  did,  it's  a 
good  thing  that  you  have  something  to  fall  back 
on.  I  suppose  you're  managing  to  save  up  a  good 
deal." 

"Why,  you  know,  Wilbur,"  Constance  answered, 
as  smoothly  as  she  could,  "it  takes  nearly  everything 
to  keep  things  going  here.  I  try  to  do  something 
for  Rose  and  for  mother,  and  I've  bought  the  new 
rug,  and  the  new  curtains  for  the  dining-room,  and 
paid  for  most  of  the  coal " 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  Wilbur  responded  gra- 
ciously. "I  realize  that  you've  done  a  whole  lot. 
But  you  must  be  saving  something,  too.  Why,  you 
get  nearly  as  much  as  I  do." 

"I  haven't  saved  much."  Constance  had  a  wry 
face.  She  was  hastily  considering  the  matter  of 
lending  her  money.  What  she  had  saved  would, 
she  knew,  stand  her  in  good  stead  in  case  she  should 
decide  to  break  away  and  live  her  own  life.  "What 
do  you  want  it  for?"  she  concluded. 

"I'll  tell  you:  There's  a  place  at  Caryville  that 
I  could  buy  if  I  had  two  thousand  dollars  to  pay 
down.  It's  a  dandy  little  place — quarter  acre  of  gar- 
den, a  garage  (it's  an  old  barn,  but  it  can  be  fixed 
over  a  little),  trees  around  it,  seven  rooms — we  could 
rent  one,  Eleanor  thinks,  and  put  the  money  toward 
our  living  expenses.  Eleanor  wants  the  place  the 
worst  way,  and  I  feel  as  if  we  ought  to  be  getting 
something  ahead.  If  you  could  let  me  have  a  few 


SUPPORT  99 

hundred,  I  could  make  up  the  rest.  Eleanor's  father 
will  let  me  have  a  dollar  or  two.  Now,  Constance, 
I'd  pay  it  back  as  soon  as  you  wanted  it " 

Constance  did  not  hear.  Her  heart  fluttered.  A 
little  place  like  that!  How  she  would  love  it.  A 
garden — trees — a  vine  over  the  porch.  Every  woman 
wants  just  such  a  place.  If  she  had  two  thousand 
dollars,  she  could  buy  a  house  and  lot.  She  could 
have  someone  with  her — a  little  girl,  perhaps;  a 
child — about  three  years  old. 

"Well?"  Wilbur  was  moving  uneasily  back  and 
forth  between  the  two  windows,  gazing  out  without 
seeing  anything. 

"I  don't  see  how  I  can." 

"You've  got  it,  haven't  you?"  asked  Wilbur,  with 
some  sharpness. 

"Y-yes,  I  have  a  little.  I  sold  our  furniture,  you 
know — some  of  it — and  Frank  said  I  could  have  the 
money." 

"Then " 

"But  I  don't  know  that  I  ought  to  let  anyone  else 
have  it.  I  might  want  a  place  of  my  own." 

Wilbur  looked  alarmed.  "Don't  do  anything 
silly,"  he  said.  "Women  haven't  an  atom  of  sense 
in  making  investments.  If  you  let  me  have  it,  it'll 
be  perfectly  safe.  You'll  know  just  where  it  is,  get 
good  interest  on  it,  and  not  fritter  it  away  in  some 
get-rich-quick  scheme,  such  as  women  are  always 
falling  for." 

"But  I  wouldn't  do  that,"  Constance  interposed. 

"You  don't  know  what  you'd  do  if  some  smooth- 


100  SUPPORT 

tongued  chap  came  along  and  put  up  a  good  story. 
He'd  get  it  out  of  you." 

"He  might  not." 

"Anyhow,"  Wilbur  made  answer,  "you'd  be  a  lot 
safer  to  let  me  have  it.  Then  you'd  know  it  was  all 
right.  I  could  take  any  amount  that  you  have  to 
spare." 

Constance  ruminated.  "I  don't  think  I  want  to, 
Wilbur,"  she  said  at  last. 

Wilbur  sulked.  "As  much  as  I've  done  for  the 
family,"  he  said  harshly.  "All  these  years,  when 
nobody  else  would  do  anything.  I  couldn't  afford 
it.  Eleanor  has  to  go  without  everything  she  wants. 
And  now  she  wants  a  home — she  needs  a  home " 

Constance  knew  that  he  was  agitating  for  sym- 
pathy; but  she  also  had  to  confess  that  what  he  had 
said  was  true.  He  had  sacrificed  a  great  deal,  and 
so  perforce  had  Eleanor.  "I'll  think  it  over,"  said 
Constance. 

"What's  the  good  of  thinking  it  over?"  Wilbur 
persisted.  "You  have  the  money,  and  you  might  as 
well  let  me  take  it  as  to  let  it  stay  in  the  bank.  Is 
it  on  your  open  account?" 

"Yes,  some  of  it,"  Constance  answered  unwill- 
ingly. She  had  intended  getting  a  certificate  of 
deposit  for  it,  but  had  been  slow. 

"And  the  rest?" 

"It's  in  a  few  Liberty  bonds — small  ones — that  I 
invested  some  of  my  housekeeping  money  in;  and 
two  that  Frank  gave  me." 

"Are  they  here?" 


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"Yes."  Constance  felt  guilty  in  the  confession. 
"I  haven't  got  a  safe-deposit  box.  I  suppose  I've 
been  careless." 

"Of  course  you  have.  They  might  have  been 
stolen  at  any  minute."  Wilbur  looked  properly  hor- 
rified. "That  shows  that  women  haven't  any  sense 
about  money." 

"If  I  let  you  take  those,  that'll  be  enough,  won't 
it?"  queried  Constance,  hoping  that  Wilbur  would 
be  satisfied. 

"Go  and  get  them,"  said  the  other  solemnly,  in 
the  tone  of  one  who  saves  another  from  a  great 
disaster. 

Constance  brought  the  bonds  from  under  a  box 
on  her  closet  shelf.  "It  wasn't  likely  that  anyone 
would  have  found  them,"  she  justified  herself. 

Wilbur  received  them  gravely.  "Now  a  check  for 
the  rest,"  he  said. 

Constance  held  back;  and  then  with  a  sudden 
inner  "What's  the  use?"  she  went  and  got  her  check 
book,  and  made  out  a  check  for  the  sum  which  she 
had  set  aside  for  her  prospective  plans.  Wilbur  took 
the  slip  of  paper  with  profuse  expressions  of  satis- 
faction. 

"You  won't  regret  this,  Connie,"  he  said.  "And 
you  can  have  it  back  any  minute  that  you  really 
need  it.  I  can  promise  you  that." 

"All  right,"  answered  Constance.  She  stifled  her 
misgivings,  and  assumed  a  nonchalant  air,  as  if 
money  were  to  her  a  matter  of  small  importance. 


102  SUPPORT 


The  guests  were  to  go  that  evening  on  a  nine 
o'clock  train.  There  was  a  bustle  of  supper,  and  a 
volley  of  parting  adjurations.  Eleanor  went  to  pack 
her  toilet  articles,  and  was  coming  out  of  the  bed- 
room with  a  brown  bag  in  her  hand,  when  she  and 
Constance  met  in  the  hall. 

"Well,  Constance,"  she  began,  "I  suppose  you'll 
be  here  all  winter." 

"I  expect  to,"  said  Constance,  speaking  with  a 
cordiality  which  the  imminent  departure  of  the  other 
woman  made  easier. 

"You've  got  your  divorce,  I  hear."  Eleanor  could 
not  refrain  from  using  the  ugly  word  before  she 
went.  She  was  not  going  to  ignore  what  had  hap- 
pened. 

"Yes;  almost,  at  least."  Constance  knew  very 
well  that  Eleanor  was  informed  of  her  status.  "I'm 
expecting  my  second  decree." 

Eleanor  laughed  superciliously.  "I'm  afraid  that 
doesn't  mean  much  to  me,"  she  said.  "I  know  noth- 
ing about  such  things.  All  I  know  is — "  a  gleam 
of  conscious  rectitude  came  into  her  eye — "that  it 
says  in  the  Bible,  'What  God  hath  joined  together, 
let  not  man  put  asunder.' ' 

"Yes,  it  does  say  that,"  Constance  responded, 
keeping  her  self-control.  "But  what  is  God?" 

Eleanor  turned  a  scandalized  face  to  the  speaker, 
her  eyes  wide,  her  jaw  dropping.  "What  is  God?" 


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she  cried.  "Why,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  ask 
such  a  question." 

"I'm  not  so  sure.  What  is  He?"  insisted  Con- 
stance. "You  say,  'What  God  hath  joined  together.' 
Now,  just  what  do  you  mean  by  that?"  Her  limbs 
were  shaking;  she  was  breathing  hard.  She  knew 
the  folly  of  the  argument,  but  she  stood  waiting 
for  her  sister-in-law's  answer. 

"Why,  the  Church — the  minister "  stammered 

Eleanor,  taken  aback  by  the  directness  of  the 
question. 

"Are  the  Church  and  the  minister  God?" 

"They  stand  for  God.  God  has  appointed  them 
to  act  for  Him,"  Eleanor  made  dignified  reply.  On 
theological  grounds  she  felt  sure  of  herself,  and  she 
was  recovering  from  the  shock  of  Constance's  frank- 
ness. 

"How  do  you  know?"  asked  the  other  calmly.  She 
felt  like  bursting  out  into  laughter,  and  yet  there 
was  some  reason  why  she  did  not. 

Eleanor  took  a  step  backward.  "Have  you  no 
respect  for  anything?"  she  cried. 

"I  have  a  great  deal  of  respect  for  a  good  many 
things,"  replied  Constance,  "but  I  haven't  much  for 
forms  of  any  kind." 

"You  speak  in  that  way  of  the  sacred  marriage 
service?"  Eleanor  looked  as  if  the  earth  were 
crumbling. 

"The  marriage  service "  began  Constance, 

wondering  why  she  went  on  with  this  futile  ex- 
change of  words. 


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At  that  moment  Rose  stepped  out  of  her  own 
room.  "Oh,  Connie,  don't  get  into  an  argument 
like  this,"  she  intervened  wearily.  "You  know  it's 
frightfully  tiresome,  and  perfectly  useless." 

Constance  let  her  hands  fall  at  her  sides.  "I  know. 
It's  been  gone  over  again  and  again.  I'm  sorry. 
But "  She  went  down  the  hall  trembling. 

As  she  shut  her  door,  she  heard  Eleanor  saying, 
shrilly,  "Why,  Rose,  Rose,  do  you  know  what  she 
said?  She  doesn't  even  believe  in  God!" 

Constance  shut  the  door,  and  stood  leaning  against 
it.  A  murmur  of  voices  came  from  below,  her 
mother's  voice,  Wilbur's,  and  the  staccato  outcries  of 
Eleanor.  Then  came  the  hurried  footsteps  of  de- 
parture, the  slamming  of  the  front  door,  the  dropping 
down  of  silence  in  the  house.  Constance,  her  lips 
shaping  themselves  into  an  ironical  smile,  drew  a  sigh 
of  relief.  "Rose  was  right,"  she  said.  "I  was  an  idiot 
to  get  into  a  controversy.  Eleanor's  set  in  her  views, 
and  it  doesn't  do  any  good  to  bang  against  them. 
I'm  sorry  I  answered  her  at  all.  It  will  only  make 
Wilbur  worse."  She  regretted,  with  sudden  rancor, 
what  she  had  done  in  letting  Wilbur  get  hold  of 
her  money.  He  had  said  that  she  "could  have  it 
back  at  any  minute,"  but  would  it  be  so  easy  to  get 
it  back?  She  had  been  inexpressibly  foolish  to  hand 
it  over  to  him.  She  saw,  now  that  it  was  too  late, 
that  she  had  been  mesmerized  by  his  appeals,  by 
his  bullying,  by  her  own  sense  of  gratitude  for  what 
he  had  done  for  the  family.  "I  wish  I  had  followed 
my  impulse,  and  taken  time  to  think  it  over,"  she 


SUPPORT  105 

lamented.  "Well,  I  can't  worry  about  it.  I'll  get  it 
back  as  soon  as  I  can,  and  I  hope  that  the  next  time 
I'll  have  a  little  more  sense." 


She  was  confirmed  in  her  regret  by  the  horror 
which  Rose  expressed  when  she  heard  of  the  loan  to 
Wilbur.  "Great  Caesar,  Connie,"  she  exclaimed, 
"you  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  let  Wilbur  have 
your  money?" 

"Why,  yes,  I  did,"  the  other  confessed,  coloring 
miserably. 

"How  did  you  come  to  do  that?"  Rose  showed 
an  amazed  curiosity. 

How  did  she?  Constance  tried  to  think.  "Well 
he  needed  it  to  pay  down  on  his  house,  and " 

Rose  stared  and  shrugged.  "Then  you  are  a  fool, 
Con.  I  should  have  thought  you'd  know  better." 

"And  he  worked  on  my  sympathy,  and  he  made 
so  much  of  what  he's  done  for  father  and  mother. 
And  anyhow,  Wilbur  isn't  dishonest,"  concluded  the 
elder  sister,  justifying  herself  in  her  own  mind. 

"No,  of  course  not."  Rose  wrinkled  her  forehead 
reflectively. 

"Then  why  should  you  insinuate  that  I  can't  trust 
him  with  what  little  money  I  have?" 

"I  wouldn't  trust  any  man  with  any  woman's 
money! '"Rose  burst  out.  "There's  something  about 
a  man — he  thinks  he  knows  so  much  about  money, 
and  a  woman  doesn't  know  anything.  He  doesn't 


106  SUPPORT 

mean  to  be  dishonest,  but  he  likes  to  feel  his  power, 
and  he  likes  to  handle  the  money,  and  all  at  once 
the  woman  finds  that  she  has  been  left  in  the 
lurch." 

Constance  shrank.  Rose  was,  in  some  ways, 
shrewd  and  cynical  beyond  her  years.  "Oh,  Rose!" 
she  cried. 

"Well,  it's  true,"  Rose  was  going  on.  "Look  at 
Aunt  Claudia  and  Uncle  Donald.  She  let  him  get 
hold  of  her  money,  and  she  could  hardly  pry  a  cent 
away  from  him  with  a  crowbar.  She  had  an  awful 
tune,  until  he  died,  and  she  got  back  what  belonged 
to  her." 

"Oh,  Uncle  Donald!"  said  Constance  significantly. 

"He  was  a  nice  man,"  argued  the  girl — "nicer  than 
Wilbur.  And  look  at  Mrs.  Clarges.  She  let  Pro- 
fessor Clarges  handle  the  money  that  she  got  from 
her  people,  and  you  know  what  he  did  with  it,  and 
what  a  hard  time  she  has  to  get  her  fingers  on  a 
penny." 

"Oh,  dear,  let's  not  talk  about  it  any  more." 
Rose's  intensity  made  Connie  nervous.  "It  isn't 
such  a  huge  sum,  anyhow." 

Rose  went  back  to  her  studying  and  Constance  to 
her  sewing.  But  the  heart  of  the  rash  lender  was 
constricted,  partly  with  fear,  and  partly  with  vexa- 
tion at  her  own  weakness. 

When  Mrs.  Greening  came  on  Monday,  Constance 
had  greeted  her  with  disappointment.  "You  didn't 
bring  little  Suzanne,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Greening  looked  disturbed.    "I  wasn't  sure 


SUPPORT  107 

that  you  really  wanted  her/'  she  said.  "She  might 
be  awfully  in  the  way." 

"I  did  mean  it.  I  do  want  her,"  Constance  as- 
serted. "The  next  time  you'll  bring  her,  won't 
you?" 

"Yes,  I  honestly  will,  now  that  I'm  sure  you  mean 
it.  I  hate  to  leave  her.  She  doesn't  say  anything, 
but  she  keeps  hold  of  my  hand  till  the  last  minute, 
and  then  keeps  looking  out  of  the  window.  Your 
mother  wants  me  on  Thursday,  so  I  can  bring  Su- 
zanne then." 

"Don't  say  I  asked  you,"  suggested  Constance. 
"Just  say  you  didn't  like  to  leave  her.  That's  true, 
isn't  it?" 

"It  surely  is." 

Constance  wondered  at  the  eagerness  with  which 
she  looked  forward  to  the  child's  coming.  During 
the  two  days  which  intervened,  she  found  herself 
planning  for  Suzanne's  comfort  and  amusement. 
She  bought  a  remnant  of  gingham  and  a  pattern, 
and  made  a  dress.  She  was  quick  with  simple  sew- 
ing. It  was  a  dear  little  dress,  she  thought,  holding 
it  up  and  inspecting  it.  She  could  hardly  refrain 
from  showing  it  to  Rose;  but  she  restrained  herself. 
Rose  would  not  be  entirely  sympathetic.  Constance 
bought  a  few  toys  at  the  ten-cent  store,  so  that  she 
would  have  something  to  amuse  the  child  with ;  and 
she  baked  some  thin  sweet  cookies. 

When  Mrs.  Greening  came  to  the  side  door,  hold- 
ing the  small  Suzanne  by  the  hand,  the  heart  of  Con- 
stance leaped.  The  tiny  round  face  looked  out  so- 


108  SUPPORT 

berly  from  under  a  blue  velveteen  bonnet  lined  with 
coarse  white  niching.  The  brown  coat,  clumsily  cut 
down,  the  stubby  black  shoes  and  wrinkled  stock- 
ings gave  the  child  a  common  and  unalluring  ap- 
pearance. "How  much  nicer  I  could  make  her  look!" 
thought  Constance.  "Come  on  in,  dear.  Come  with 
me,"  she  said.  Suzanne  obediently  relinquished  her 
hold  on  Mrs.  Greening's  hand  and  went  to  Con- 
stance. Mrs.  Fenton  looked  on  silently,  her  face 
showing  more  than  she  supposed  of  disapproval. 
Constance  took  the  little  girl  up  to  her  own  room, 
saying,  "I'm  glad  you  could  come  and  visit  me." 

"Is  this  your  house?"  queried  Suzanne,  gazing 
about  with  interest. 

"Yes,  this  is  where  I  live." 

"It's  a  big  house,  isn't  it?" 

"It's  pretty  big." 

"And  it's  a  pretty  house,  too."  Suzanne  looked 
admiringly  at  the  furnishings. 

"I'd  hardly  say  that,"  smiled  the  woman.  She 
was  untying  the  strings  of  the  ugly  bonnet. 

"Have  you  got  any  little  girls?"  asked  Suzanne. 

"No.  I  haven't  any  at  all.  That's  why  I  wanted 
you  to  come  and  see  me."  Constance  was  studying 
the  face  before  her,  searching  for  remembrances. 
"Come  now,  off  with  your  coat!  There!  Now 
you'll  feel  better!"  Gravely  the  child  submitted  to 
having  her  wraps  removed.  Constance  noted  the 
small  head  with  its  thin  yellow  hair;  the  slender 
shoulders  under  the  bulky  underclothing  and  ill-fit- 
ting dress.  There  was  a  fragility  about  the  child, 


SUPPORT  109 

and  in  her  face  were  shadowlike  reminders  of  the 
dead  Honoria.  The  gaiety  of  the  lost  playmate  was 
lacking,  and  in  its  place  was  an  unnatural  shyness 
and  gravity.  Suzanne  stood  looking  up  at  Mrs. 
Moffatt  with  timid  eyes,  as  if  she  were  taking  her 
cue  from  the  behavior  of  the  woman,  watching 
perhaps  for  signs  of  an  irascible  temper. 

"How  dependent  children  are  on  older  people's 
whims  or  generosity!"  thought  Constance.  The  idea 
made  her  heart  ache.  She  knelt  down  and  took  the 
child's  body  into  her  arms  and  held  it  close,  as  she 
had  wanted  to  hold  the  stocky  form  of  Sally's 
"Gladdums."  Tears  came  into  her  eyes. 

She  set  herself  to  the  task  of  amusing  her  visitor. 
She  longed  to  try  on  the  new  frock,  but  was  fearful 
of  rendering  Suzanne  self-conscious.  "I  think  it's 
just  the  right  size,"  she  murmured,  peeping  at  it 
as  it  lay  in  the  dresser  drawer.  She  got  out  the 
blocks  and  toys  which  she  had  provided.  The  eyes 
of  the  child  widened,  but  she  kept  still.  With  en- 
couragement, she  came  forward  shyly,  fingered  the 
gay  blocks,  looking  up  to  see  whether  she  were  going 
to  be  chidden  for  transgressing  some  mysterious 
rule.  "It's  all  right.  They're  for  you."  Constance 
nodded  and  smiled  her  reassurance.  The  child  began 
diffidently  to  set  one  block  upon  another,  and  to 
examine  the  pictures  at  the  sides. 

"Those  folks  kind  of  keep  her  down,"  Mrs.  Green- 
ing had  said.  That  was  her  way  of  saying  that  the 
baby's  natural  instincts  had  been  suppressed.  "She 
isn't  herself  at  all  when  she's  with  them." 


110  SUPPORT 

"I  want  her  to  be  herself,"  Constance  whispered 
passionately.  Suzanne  looked  up  at  the  sound  and 
dropped  the  block  which  she  was  holding.  "It's  all 
right,  dear.  They're  for  you."  There  was  an  ache 
in  the  woman's  throat.  How  could  anyone  be  harsh 
with  a  little  thing  like  that?  She  busied  herself 
about  the  room,  so  that  Suzanne  should  not  feel  that 
she  was  being  watched.  The  child  grew  so  absorbed 
in  her  play  that  Constance  felt  free  to  leave  her. 
She  went  down  and  helped  with  the  housework,  lest 
Mrs.  Fenton  should  complain;  but  she  ran  back 
now  and  then  to  peep  into  the  room,  and  to  see  that 
Suzanne  was  happy.  At  eleven  o'clock  she  carried 
up  a  glass  of  milk  and  some  cookies  on  a  tray,  which 
she  took  delight  in  setting  out  with  fine  linen  and 
polished  glass  and  silver. 

"Come,  Suzanne.  Something  to  eat."  She  used  a 
cheerful  commonplace  voice.  Suzanne  sat  on  her  lap 
and  ate  the  cookies  and  drank  the  milk  with  satis- 
faction, but  with  a  grave  face,  as  if  eating  were  a 
serious  task,  requiring  concentration.  When  a  rivu- 
let of  milk  ran  down  upon  her  dress,  she  turned  to 
the  woman  such  a  face  of  dismay  that  Constance 
shivered.  "It's  all  right,  dear.  It  doesn't  matter," 
she  cried  with  haste.  "See — we'll  wipe  it  off.  It 
doesn't  matter  at  all.  Oh,  dear!"  she  was  saying 
to  herself,  "how  can  people  make  so  much  of  trifles? 
How  can  they  hurt  a  child's  feelings  for  something 
so  insignificant?" 

She  hesitated  as  to  whether  to  have  Suzanne  eat 
lunch  in  the  dining-room  or  at  the  table  in  the 


SUPPORT  111 

kitchen  with  Mrs.  Greening.  She  decided  not  to 
arouse  the  antagonism  of  her  family ;  but  all  through 
the  meal  her  mind  vvas  on  the  little  girl  in  the 
kitchen. 

After  lunch,  she  put  Suzanne  into  her  own  bed. 
When  the  child  was  asleep,  Constance  stood  looking 
down  at  her,  fretting  a  bit  over  the  whiteness  of  the 
baby-like  skin  at  neck  and  temple,  the  blue  tinge 
to  the  eyelids,  the  pale  red  of  the  lips.  "She  needs 
something,"  pondered  Constance — "more  joy,  more 
vitality,  more  love." 

When  Suzanne  awoke,  with  a  frightened  whimper, 
her  new  friend  was  there,  ready  to  take  her  and  con- 
sole. She  put  on  the  new  dress  "to  surprise  Auntie," 
fastening  the  buttons  and  adjusting  the  collar  with 
tender  hands.  She  lifted  Suzanne  up  to  see  herself 
in  the  glass,  and  kissed  her  softly  on  the  back  of  the 
neck. 

She  let  her  go  reluctantly,  feeling  an  emptiness  in 
the  house  when  the  little  girl  had  gone.  "She's  not 
a  pretty  child,  is  she?"  said  Mrs.  Fenton  when  the 
door  had  closed  on  Suzanne  and  Mrs.  Greening. 

"Why,  I  think  she  looks  well  enough,"  Constance 
replied.  "I  wouldn't  want  a  child  to  look  like  a 
Christmas  card." 

"She  certainly  doesn't  look  like  that,"  answered 
Mrs.  Fenton,  inclined  to  take  offense. 

"There's  nothing  common  about  her." 

"N-no,  I  can't  say  that  there  is.  But  why  did 
Mrs.  Greening  bring  her?  Doesn't  she  have  anyone 
to  stay  with?" 


112  SUPPORT 

"Yes,  Suzanne  usually  stays  with  some  people  who 
live  near,"  said  Constance. 

"They're  good  to  her,  aren't  they?" 

"Good,  perhaps,"  admitted  Mrs.  Moffatt,  "but 
they  don't  give  her  a  chance  to  be  herself." 

"Well,  a  child  of  that  age  doesn't  mind  much." 
Mrs.  Fenton  was  evidently  speaking  with  her 
thoughts  on  other  things.  "People  are  pretty  much 
the  same  to  them ;  besides,  she'll  soon  be  old  enough 
to  go  to  kindergarten." 

"I  suppose  so,"  answered  the  daughter.  "But  I 

wish "  She  was  going  to  say,  "I  wish  we  could 

have  her  here  every  day,  while  Mrs.  Greening  is  out 
at  work."  But  she  changed  to  the  words:  "I  wish 
Honoria  Blake  could  have  lived.  I  remember  she 
loved  children  so  much." 

"Yes?"  said  Mrs.  Fenton.  "Your  father's  wanting 
the  doctor  again.  Do  you  think  I'd  better  call  up?" 

"I  dare  say  you  might  as  well,"  Constance  as- 
sented, "if  it  makes  him  feel  better  to  be  told  that 
there's  nothing  the  matter  with  him." 

"Oh,  well,  no  doctor  will  exactly  tell  you  that," 
answered  Mrs.  Fenton  seriously.  "Dr.  Britten  just 
tells  him  he's  getting  along  all  right,  and  gives  him 
some  pellets  or  something." 

"Can't  father  go  to  see  him?  It  doesn't  cost  so 
much,"  responded  Constance,  frowning. 

"He  thinks  it's  more  dignified  to  have  the  doctor 
come,"  Mrs.  Fenton  explained. 

"Then  you'd  better  call  him,  I  suppose,"  said  Con- 
stance. 


CHAPTER  VII 


LATE  one  afternoon,  Alison  Sharland  came  over 
and  took  Constance  motoring.  "I've  been  out  of 
town,"  he  apologized,  "and  even  to-day  I  couldn't 
get  away  any  earlier,  because  business  was  so  press- 
ing." They  did  not  drive  through  the  streets  fre- 
quented by  their  friends.  "Do  you  mind  if  we  drive 
through  these  side  streets?"  he  said.  "I  left  my 
gloves  at  the  garage." 

Constance  did  not  mind,  of  course.  It  was  only 
when  they  were  turning  back  in  the  dusk,  after  an 
exhilarating  burst  of  speed  on  a  smooth  and  deserted 
road,  that  the  thought  came  to  her  that  perhaps 
Sharland  had  purposely  avoided  the  main  thorough- 
fares. She  dismissed  the  idea  with  humorous  im- 
patience. "What  difference  does  it  make?"  she 
asked  herself.  "I'm  enjoying  the  drive,  and  it's  good 
to  get  away  from  home,  and  if  he  wants  to  prevent 
having  our  names  spoken  in  the  same  breath,  he's 
only  doing  the  right  and  cautious  thing.  It  pro- 
tects me  as  well  as  him." 

They  did  not  talk  much.  Alison  was  not  a  fluent 
talker,  and  Constance  was  happy  to  sink  back  into  a 
state  of  peace,  after  the  irritations  of  an  afternoon 

113 


114  SUPPORT 

with  her  father's  grumbling.  "We  had  a  picnic  over 
there  once,  you  remember,"  said  Sharland,  slowing 
up  his  car  near  a  promontory  that  overlooked  the 
Lake. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  answered  laughing,  "and  one  of  the 
men  knocked  a  basket  off  the  edge  of  the  rocks,  into 
the  water.  It  had  all  the  cake  and  fruit  in  it,  and  we 
were  furious.  Were  you  the  one  who  got  us  into  that 
scrape?" 

"No."  Sharland  smiled  reminiscently.  "I  think 
that  was  Tom  Elwood.  Wasn't  that  the  day,  too, 
that  Sally  Needham  lost  something — a  ring  or  a 
pin  or  a  locket?  We  spent  most  of  our  time  pawing 
around  in  the  grass,  looking  for  it." 

"I  do  remember  something  like  that.  It  was 
some  trinket  that  her  professor  had  given  her.  She 
didn't  want  to  come,  anyhow,  because  he  wasn't  in- 
vited, and  she  was  sulky  all  day.  It  was  so  unusual 
for  her  to  be  anything  but  good-natured,  that  we 
teased  her  unmercifully." 

"She'll  never  lose  Rathvon,"  said  Sharland,  speed- 
ing up  his  car.  "He's  got  a  grip  on  her  like  an  octo- 
pus. I  never  see  her  any  more.  We  didn't  care 
much  for  each  other — at  least  she  never  liked  me 
very  well;  and  now  that  she's  so  fearfully  domestic, 
it  doesn't  seem  worth  while  to  seek  her  out.  I  have- 
n't seen  her  for  a  good  while." 

"Sally's  still  my  best  friend,  I  think  I  may  say," 
responded  Constance.  "I'm  devoted  to  her." 

"Yes?"    Sharland  was  politely  noncommittal. 

"I  had  an  idea  that  you  and  her  cousin  Buford 


SUPPORT  115 

were  good  chums,"  she  made  reply.  "I  never  knew 
Buford  Clarke  quite  as  well  as  I  did  some  of  the 
others." 

"Yes,  Buford  and  I  were  the  best  of  friends,"  said 
Alison  slowly;  "more  after  you  left,  I  think." 

"You  must  have  felt  it  when  he  was  killed,"  Con- 
stance remarked  sympathetically. 

"I  did."  The  car  swerved  as  Sharland  shifted  his 
hands  at  the  wheel. 

"It  was  in  the  Argonne,  wasn't  it?" 

"Yes ;  in  the  Argonne."    The  car  swerved  again. 

"Did  he — were  you ?"  Constance  began. 

"Yes.  We  were  in  the  same  regiment.  We  were 
both  officers.  I  saw  him  once  in  a  while — and 
after " 

They  were  silent  for  a  while.  "Since  I  came  back, 
I  haven't  seen  anything  of  Mrs.  Rath  von,"  Shar- 
land said  at  last. 

Constance  inferred  that  his  grief  for  Clarke  had 
been  so  keen  that  he  could  not  bear  to  be  reminded 
of  his  friend  even  by  social  contact  with  that  friend's 
cousin.  "He  has  more  feeling  than  I  thought,"  she 
said  to  herself. 

The  talk  turned  to  other  things;  the  new  houses 
all  along  the  Parkway,  the  attractions  of  the  Bel- 
mont  Addition,  the  high  taxes  in  Blanchard.  Then 
it  became  more  personal.  "It's  tremendously  nice 
that  you've  come  back,"  said  Sharland  impulsively. 
"I  don't  know  that  I  should  say  that,"  he  corrected 
himself.  This  was  the  first  reference  that  he  had 
made  to  the  reason  for  Constance's  coming  home. 


116  SUPPORT 

"Of  course  I  don't  know  how  you  feel  about  it,"  he 
went  on  hastily,  not  giving  her  an  opportunity  for 
comment.  "But  we  were  good  friends  in  the  old 
days,  and  I  missed  you  when  you  went  away.  I 
really  did,  you  know,"  he  added,  as  she  turned  to- 
ward him  the  humorously  skeptical  face  with  which 
one  is  supposed  to  greet  a  complimentary  remark. 

"One  always  enjoys  being  missed,"  she  remarked 
demurely.  "But  I  dare  say  you  haven't  failed  to 
find  other  friends  since."  In  her  mind,  she  inter- 
polated, "Hilda  Farrar,  for  instance."  She  went  on 
aloud.  "Things  crowd  on  so  in  life.  One  doesn't 
have  much  time  to  worry  over  what's  gone." 

"N-no."  His  eyes  were  on  the  straight  road  be- 
fore him.  "It's  a  good  thing,  isn't  it?"  His  tone 
suggested  that  he  had  suffered  in  his  way,  as  she  had 
in  hers.  Whether  he  meant  to  imply  that  this  suf- 
fering had  come  about  through  losing  her,  she  could 
not  discern.  Probably  he  referred  to  his  father,  to 
Buford  Clarke,  perhaps  to  Hilda  Farrar.  There 
were  other  things  in  his  life,  of  which  she  knew  noth- 
ing. She  knew  him  hardly  more  than  a  stranger, 
she  reflected,  except  that  she  naturally  had  some 
knowledge  of  his  background.  Of  what  had  gone  on 
in  his  life  and  in  his  mind  during  the  last  six  years 
she  was  densely  ignorant.  Men  were  mysteries,  any- 
how, if  not  in  character,  at  least  in  the  degree  to 
which  the  events  of  their  lives  were  concealed.  Even 
without  taking  that  occult  side  of  his  life  into  con- 
sideration, Constance  felt  that  Sharland  offered  a 
subject  for  discovery.  It  would  be  interesting  to 


SUPPORT  117 

learn  to  know  him  over  again — more  interesting 
than  meeting  an  entirely  new  man. 

She  realized  that  they  had  been  quiet  while  the 
car  had  covered  a  long  space.  But  he  was  speaking 
again.  "It's  not  been  all  beer  and  skittles,  as  we 
thought  it  was  going  to  be,  has  it?"  He  glanced 
around  at  her  face,  where  an  elusive  veil  fluttered. 

"Hardly."  She  had  determined  that  she  would 
never  assume  the  cynical  air  of  some  injured  wives, 
who  had  a  blatant  way  of  advertising  their  injuries. 
She  was  glad  that  she  could  keep  the  sneer  out  of 
her  voice,  and  that  she  could  go  on  steadily.  "Beer 
and  skittles  might  get  monotonous.  I  haven't  an 
idea  what  skittles  are." 

"Nor  I,"  he  grinned. 

"Anyway,  too  many  of  them  in  rapid  succession 
would  be  a  surfeit." 

"So  you're  glad  you  haven't  had  them?" 

"Theoretically,"  she  answered,  smiling.  "We 
never  like  the  bitter  doses  while  we're  getting 
them." 

"I'm  sorry  you've  had  any  bitter  ones,"  he  said 
in  a  low  voice.  "I  hoped  you'd  be  happy." 

"It — doesn't  matter."  A  quick  feeling  of  desola- 
tion, of  self-pity,  of  anguish,  arose  within  her.  His 
tone  had  unnerved  her.  She  had  thought,  too,  that 
she  was  going  to  be  happy.  She  had  been  so  sure 
of  it,  so  certain  that  her  life  was  settled,  completed, 
compact  with  beauty  and  joy.  Now  here  it  was  baf- 
fled, broken,  devastated.  She  drew  her  breath  quiv- 
eringly.  He  saw  that  she  could  not  bear  that  he 


118  SUPPORT 

should  offer  her  compassion.    They  kept  to  com- 
monplace talk  during  the  rest  of  the  way  home. 


She  broached  the  subject  of  Sharland  when  she 
took  over  a  nut-cake  to  Sally  a  day  or  two  later. 
She  thought  Sally  looked  a  bit  odd  or  thoughtful 
when  his  name  was  mentioned.  But  since  she  was 
absorbed  in  giving  young  Owen  his  mid-forenoon 
luncheon  of  bread  and  milk,  it  was  hard  to  judge. 

"Oh,  Alison,"  said  Sally,  with  a  downward  inflec- 
tion. "Owen,  never  mind  the  cat.  Eat  your  bread 
and  milk.  You've  been  seeing  something  of  him. 
I  never  do — not  since  Buford  died.  He  used  to 
come  here  once  in  a  while,  before  that.  Owen,  be 
a  good  boy,  and  don't  slobber.  Of  course,  he  was 
away  somewhere  in  the  West,  and  then  in  the  war; 
so  I  haven't  really  seen  much  of  him  since  he  used 
to  be  going  round  with  you — before  you  were  mar- 
ried." 

"Did  you  know  about "  Constance  was  going 

to  say,  "About  someone  named  Hilda  Farrar?"  But 
Owen,  waving  his  spoon  at  the  cat,  spilled  an  ava- 
lanche of  milk  and  bread  over  the  table  and  the  rug. 
Mrs.  Rathvon  spatted  his  hands.  "I  told  you  not 
to  do  that,  Owen."  Owen  began  to  whimper,  and 
then  to  roar.  Emma  came  in  crossly  with  a  cloth. 
Constance  went  home  without  asking  her  question. 
"I  don't  think  I'll  ask  it  anyhow,"  she  said.  "What 
I  don't  know  won't  hurt  me.  And  I  won't  pry  into 
his  affairs.  I  don't  want  anyone  prying  into  mine." 


SUPPORT  119 


During  these  early  weeks  at  home,  Constance  had 
been  pondering  her  situation.  Conditions  were  new 
to  her,  she  argued  with  herself,  and  she  could  not 
judge  of  them  so  soon.  They  would  improve.  She 
would  get  used  to  them.  She  must  not  condemn 
others  too  easily — must  not  condemn  herself.  She 
must  not  expect  too  much,  either;  she  should  try  to 
content  herself  with  what  she  had.  Contentment 
was  a  frame  of  mind,  not  a  group  of  material  sur- 
roundings. 

Yet  underneath  all  this  mental  debate,  she  knew 
with  clear  assurance  that  something  was  radically 
wrong  in  the  plight  in  which  she  had  found  herself. 
Either  her  own  personal  character  was  painfully 
lacking  in  strength  and  goodness,  or  she  was  errone- 
ously trying  to  fit  it  to  minds  and  individualities 
among  which  she  did  not  belong.  Perhaps  there  was 
truth  in  both  explanations.  In  either  case,  there 
must  be  some  method  of  correcting  the  error,  if  one 
could  only  find  it.  If  one  had  a  reasonable  amount 
of  intelligence,  one  ought  to  be  able  to  discover  both 
the  disease  and  the  remedy.  She  took  heart  and 
hope  in  the  prospect. 

Sally  Rathvon  often  called  up  on  the  telephone 
for  a  few  words  of  greeting  when  she  and  Constance 
could  not  arrange  to  meet.  One  morning  she  said, 
"I've  got  to  go  down  to  Mrs.  Gilson's — she's  the 
woman  that  sews  for  me.  Won't  you  come  out  to 
the  library  corner,  and  walk  along  with  me?" 


120  SUPPORT 

"I'd  be  delighted."  Constance  dropped  the  task 
which  she  was  at,  took  off  her  apron,  and  smoothed 
her  hair.  She  threw  a  dark  blue  cape  over  her 
house-dress,  and  went  out  to  the  corner  of  the  col- 
lege library,  where  she  saw  Sally  approaching. 
Sally  always  rested  one,  even  in  looking  at  her, 
thought  Constance.  She  was  calm,  smiling, 
friendly,  yet  not  inane  or  undiscerning.  Even  with 
the  disadvantages  of  her  present  condition,  she  was 
personable  and  attractive.  They  walked  on,  talking 
of  the  fall  sunshine,  the  thinning  leaves  on  the  elms, 
and  the  secrets  of  autumn  gardening. 

"I'm  having  a  few  women  in  on  Thursday,"  said 
Sally,  "just  to  sew  and  talk.  Grif s  going  to  be  out 
of  town,  giving  some  lectures  in  Milwaukee.  I'm 
asking  Mary  Foster  and  her  aunt,  that  awfully  suc- 
cessful life  insurance  woman,  you  know.  She's  an 
interesting  person ;  she's  staying  with  the  Fosters  for 
a  week  or  so.  You  ought  to  find  her  congenial,  Con- 
nie. She's  one  of  'em,  too." 

"One  of  what?"  Constance  looked  blank. 

"Divorcees." 

"Sally!" 

There  was  a  mischievous  look  on  Mrs.  Rathvon's 
face.  "I  was  just  doing  it  to  tease  you,  Connie. 
You'll  come,  won't  you?" 

"I'd  like  to — "  Constance  hesitated.  She  had  not 
been  out  very  much  as  yet,  and  she  felt  an  inertia 
about  beginning  to  construct  any  sort  of  social 
life. 

"Of    course    you    would.    Come    along.    You 


SUPPORT  121 

can't  be  a  recluse.  You'll  enjoy  it,  though  I  do  say 
it  as  shouldn't  of  my  own  party."  Sally  was  en- 
couraging to  her  backward  friend.  "Bring  your 
mother  along.  She  doesn't  get  out  much." 

"Well,  I'll  come,"  Constance  agreed,  not  unwill- 
ingly. "And  thank  you,  kind  lady,  for  the  invita- 
tion. I  think  mother'll  come,  too.  She's  so  fond 
of  you." 

"Don't  forget  that  we're  going  to  work  as  well  as 
talk,"  Sally  reminded  her.  "Bring  along  some  of 
that  perfectly  lovely  crocheting  that  you  do." 

"I  will,"  Constance  replied.  "I  don't  know  this 
aunt  of  Mary  Foster's.  She  lived  in  Illinois  some- 
where, I  remember,  and  in  my  day  the  Fosters 
didn't  see  much  of  her.  She'd  done  something  that 
they  didn't  exactly  approve." 

"Ha!  that  was  before  she  made  her  money  in  life 
insurance,"  said  Sally,  with  her  tolerant  understand- 
ing of  human  failings.  "She'd  separated  from  her 
husband,  achieved  a  divorce,  in  fact,  and  Mrs. 
Foster  didn't  think  that  was  'nice.'  But  she  began 
to  be  successful,  get  written  up,  have  her  picture 
in  the  magazines,  you  know ;  and  that  made  a  differ- 
ence. There's  nothing  like  prosperity  for  eliminat- 
ing the  disapproval  of  your  relatives.  Make  note 
of  that,  my  dear  Mrs.  Moffatt." 

"I  make  note  of  it,"  answered  Constance,  almost 
solemnly. 

"Well,  then,  you'U  come,"  Sally  remarked.  "This 
is  Mrs.  Gilson's  house.  Do  you  want  to  wait?" 

"No,  I'll  go  on  home  and  finish  my  green  tomato 


122  SUPPORT 

pickles,"  replied  the  other.  "I  set  them  on  the  back 
of  the  stove.  I  think  they'll  be  all  right." 

On  Thursday,  she  and  her  mother  made  ready  for 
Sally's  tea.  Mr.  Fenton  gave  them  an  unpleasant 
half-hour,  but  was  pacified  by  the  unexpected  ar- 
rival of  Rose  from  her  class  on  the  hill.  The  profes- 
sor had  "cut,"  she  explained,  and  so  she  had  come 
home.  "It  seems  like  an  intervention  of  Providence, 
doesn't  it?"  Constance  remarked,  as  she  and  her 
mother  set  forth. 

"It  does,"  Mrs.  Fenton  assented.  "I  don't  think 
I  should  have  had  the  courage  to  come  away,  with 
him  taking  on  so." 

"Well,  you  escaped,  anyhow,"  sighed  Constance. 
Her  father  was  certainly  a  trial — to  use  no  stronger 
word — she  admitted  in  her  heart. 

They  arrived  at  Sally's  house,  took  off  their  wraps 
in  a  bedroom  upstairs,  and  joined  the  little  group 
in  the  drawing-room.  Constance  was  conscious  of 
looking  well.  Her  becoming  silk  dress,  the  modish 
way  in  which  she  did  her  hair,  gave  her  ease  and 
confidence.  She  sat  with  her  needlework,  not  say- 
ing much,  listening  to  what  was  said.  Mary  Foster's 
aunt,  a  Mrs.  Craig,  was  a  woman  of  fifty-five,  hand- 
somely dressed,  poised,  dignified,  yet  gracious.  She, 
too,  was  rather  silent,  and  Constance,  watching  her, 
was  aware  that  the  older  woman  was  scrutinizing  the 
faces  about  her  in  a  keen  though  not  unsympathetic 
way. 

Detained  by  the  altercation  with  Mr.  Fenton,  Con- 
stance and  her  mother  had  settled  themselves  among 


SUPPORT  123 

the  other  women  just  before  tea  was  served.  The 
faithful  Emma  now  began  passing  the  cups  and  the 
sandwiches.  Tongues  were  loosened,  and  the  talk 
became  general. 

"This  is  good  brown  bread,"  said  a  round-faced 
woman,  munching.  "Does  your  maid  make  it,  Mrs. 
Rathvon?" 

"No,"  answered  Sally  from  the  tea-table,  "I  get 
it  at  the  Woman's  Exchange." 

"They  have  such  good  bread  there,"  purred  Mrs. 
Clarges,  her  mild  face  beaming  at  her  hostess. 

"They  have  good  brown  bread,"  put  in  a  thin  and 
sallow  woman,  "but  I  don't  care  for  their  white  bread 
as  much  as  I  used  to.  Hiram  won't  eat  it.  But  I 
get  graham  bread  there,  and  we  enjoy  that." 

"I  get  all  my  tea-biscuit  there,"  ventured  a  shy 
woman. 

Constance  failed  to  place  the  voices  as  they  went 
on.  "Oh,  do  they  have  tea-biscuit?  I  think  they're 
so  nice,  toasted,  with  plenty  of  butter." 

"And  with  raspberry  jam!  I  always  go  to  Schu- 
bert's for  my  rye  bread." 

"Yes,  they  do  have  good  rye  bread  at  Schubert's. 
We  have  it  on  Sunday  night,  with  cheese  and  choco- 
late." 

"That  sounds  appetizing.  I'll  tell  you  a  good 
place  for  rye  bread — that's  Eggebrecht's,  on  John- 
son Street,  you  know,  down  behind  the  Paint  Shop. 
It's  just  a  few  doors  from  that  little  drygoods  store 
down  in  there.  Rob  dotes  on  Eggebrecht's  rye 
bread.  He  won't  eat  any  other  kind." 


124  SUPPORT 

"I  don't  care  for  rye  bread.  It  always  seems  so 
sourish." 

"Oh,  but  there's  a  sweet  kind.  You  want  to  ask 
for  the  sweet  rye  bread.  It's  very  nourishing,  you 
know." 

"My  husband  thinks  that  nobody  can  make  such 
good  bread  as  I  can,  myself.  Yes,  I  will  have  an- 
other cup,  Sally." 

"Do  you  make  your  bread  with  milk,  or  with  warm 
water?" 

"I  use  a  quart  of  milk.  It's  expensive,  but  it's 
so  much  better.  We  can't  eat  bought  breads,  now 
that  we're  used  to  the  home-made." 

"My  maid  makes  the  loveliest  corn  bread.  It 
just  melts  in  your  mouth." 

"I  never  ate  any  corn  bread  that  I  thought  was 
good." 

"You'd  like  Olga's.  She  saves  cream,  until  she 
has  a  cup  of  sour  cream — " 

"I'd  like  to  see  anyone  save  any  cream  in  our 
house !  I'm  going  to  help  myself  to  another  of  these 
nice  sandwiches.  Mrs.  Rathvon  has  such  a  good 
maid — Emma.  She's  been  with  her  for  I  don't 
know  how  long." 

"I  have  a  woman  that  comes  in.  She  cleans  the 
bathroom  just  beautifully,  but  she  hates  doing  the 
stairs." 

"I  have  a  German  woman.  She's  careless,  but 
she's  good.  She  broke  Rob's  meerschaum  pipe,  and 
two  of  my  old  blue  plates.  I  just  sat  down  and 
cried." 


SUPPORT  125 

"Mrs.  Koski  won't  wash  windows,  and  I  have  to 
have  a  student.  Students  are  a  horrid  bother.  They 
expect  you  to  do  so  much  for  them — let  them  off  be- 
fore their  hour  is  up,  and  overpay  them." 

"I  had  a  woman  who  cleaned  the  silver  so  well, 
and  the  shelves  in  the  china  closet,  but  she  had  to 
go  and  take  care  of  her  husband's  mother,  who 
broke  her  leg.  Why  are  cleaning-women's  relatives 
always  breaking  their  legs?" 

Constance,  listening  to  the  talk  around  here,  felt 
wearied  and  amused.  If  this  was  all  these  women 
had  to  say,  why  take  the  trouble  to  meet  them  or 
entertain  them?  They  could  drink  tea  at  home. 
They  were  mostly  professors'  wives,  she  noted.  They 
could  all  talk  about  more  significant  things,  no 
doubt,  if  anyone  would  start  them  going. 

Suddenly  Constance  was  aware  that  the  conversa- 
tion had  changed.  She  turned  gradually  away  from 
the  woman  who  was  asking  her  how  many  maids  she 
kept,  and  gave  ear  to  what  was  being  said.  Some- 
one had  asked  Mrs.  Craig  a  question.  She  had  an- 
swered it  in  her  vigorous  way.  There  was  a  reply, 
an  argument.  Other  people  began  to  listen.  In  a 
few  moments,  Mrs.  Craig  had  the  floor. 

"I  used  to  think  that  it  was  a  terrible  thing  to  be 
divorced.  Now  I  see  that  it's  sometimes  terrible  not 
to  be.  I'm  afraid  I  haven't  much  patience  with  the 
woman  who  hasn't  the  courage  to  cut  loose  from  asso- 
ciations that  are  obsolete  and  irksome."  There  was 
an  unspoken  protest  in  the  room.  "By  that  I  don't 
at  all  mean  that  one  is  to  break  away  rashly. 


126  SUPPORT 

But  when  one  is  convinced  that  her  marriage  is  a  fail- 
ure, she  should  quietly  withdraw  from  the  whole  sit- 
uation." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you  at  all,"  said  a  voice  which 
Constance  thought  sounded  like  Eleanor's.  "Lots 
of  people  sacrifice  themselves  so  as  not  to  bring  dis- 
comfort upon  others." 

"That  may  be,"  said  Mrs.  Craig;  "but  there  are 
thousands  of  women — and  men,  too — who  wish  they 
had  the  courage  to  get  away.  It's  cowardice  and 
laziness,  not  heroism  or  self-sacrifice  that  keeps  them 
tied  up  in  a  relationship  which  they  despise." 

"Cowardice  before  public  opinion,  you  mean?" 
asked  Sally. 

"Partly  that;  but  with  women  it's  largely  coward- 
ice at  the  prospect  of  having  to  earn  their  living 
and  make  their  way.  They're  afflicted  with  laziness, 
just  plain  laziness.  It's  easier  to  sacrifice  their  self- 
respect  than  to  sacrifice  comfort  and  vanity." 

"But  if  they  got  a  divorce  with  alimony,"  argued 
Mrs.  Clarges  impersonally  (she  was  happy  enough 
with  her  professor,  and  had  money  of  her  own), 
"they  could  have  a  certain  amount  of  ease,  and 
money  to  dress  on." 

"A  woman — I  mean  any  woman  who  is  reasonably 
healthy  and  free — ought  to  be  ashamed  to  take  ali- 
mony," said  Mrs.  Craig  quietly.  She  bent  her 
handsome  graying  head  over  her  neglected  needle- 
work. 

"Why?"  There  were  a  few  startled  faces,  a  few 
resentful  ones.  "Isn't  it  the  usual  thing?" 


SUPPORT  127 

"The  fact  that  it's  the  usual  thing  would  probably 
be  an  argument  against  it."  Mrs.  Craig  smiled  sar- 
tirically.  "The  general  mass  of  thought  on  such 
subjects  is  usually  muddled." 

"Of  course  a  woman  should  take  alimony,"  said 
the  sharp  voice  like  Eleanor's.  "It's  perfectly  silly 
to  say  that  she  shouldn't." 

"Why  should  she?"  Mrs.  Craig  turned  toward  the 
speaker.  "She  isn't  giving  anything  to  the  man — 
why  should  she  take  and  not  give?  She's  living 
apart  from  him,  not  keeping  his  house,  or  giving  him 
her  companionship,  or  doing  anything  at  all  for 
him." 

"But  he's  promised  to  support  her!"  put  in  the 
plump,  youngish  woman,  her  eyes  bewildered. 

Mrs.  Craig  regarded  her  thoughtfully.  "Why 
should  she  expect  him  to?"  she  asked.  "Why  should 
a  man  carry  a  full-grown,  able-bodied,  fairly  intelli- 
gent woman  around  on  his  shoulders,  like  a  bag  of 
meal?" 

"But  a  married  woman  is  not  used  to  working," 
Mrs.  Clarges  remarked,  still  'impersonally.  Con- 
stance suspected  her  of  wishing  in  her  amiable  way 
to  lead  the  speaker  on.  "If  she's  had  a  profession, 
she's  got  out  of  touch  with  it."  Several  other  wo- 
men nodded  at  this. 

"Nonsense!"  cried  Mrs.  Craig,  "she  ought  to  be 
used  to  working.  She  ought  not  to  have  settled 
down  to  indolence  and  frivolity,  even  while  she  was 
married.  And  so  it  ought  not  to  be  a  great  change 
if  she  had  to  earn  a  living.  She  might  have  to  do 


128  SUPPORT 

it  if  her  husband  died  or  went  insane  or  was  sent  to 
jail,  or  was  crippled  or  disabled." 

"That's  different,"  murmured  two  or  three. 

"I  don't  know  why."  Constance  noticed  with 
pleasure  how  clear  and  fearless  were  the  eyes  which 
Mrs.  Craig  turned  upon  her  opponents.  "If  she's 
had  a  profession,  she  can  get  back  into  it — or  learn 
another.  It's  only  a  matter  of  willingness.  Any 
intelligent  woman  can  earn  her  own  living.  She 
may  not  have  everything  that  she  wants,  but  at 
least  she  can  have  safety  and  comfort  and  independ- 
ence." 

Then  Mrs.  Fenton  spoke  up.  She  could  not  keep 
the  animosity  out  of  her  voice.  "But  he's  taken  her 
youth — he's  taken  the  best  years  of  her  life!"  Con- 
stance flushed  at  her  mother's  speech.  Nobody 
looked  at  her,  and  yet  she  was  conscious  of  the 
thoughts  directed  toward  her. 

Mrs.  Craig  answered  quietly:  "So  has  she  taken 
his.  And  what  are  the  best  years  of  one's  life? 
Not  one's  green  and  selfish  and  inexperienced  youth. 
The  best  years  are  those  of  maturity  and  common 
sense.  There's  nothing  in  that  sentimental  argu- 
ment at  all." 

Emma  began  collecting  the  cups. 

"But  it's  hard  for  an  older  woman  to  go  out  and 
hunt  around  for  a  job,  and  to  get  down  to  work," 
persisted  Mrs.  Fenton,  her  hands  working  nervously 
in  her  lap. 

"Perhaps  it  is.  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by 
an  'older'  woman,"  Mrs.  Craig  replied.  "Even 


SUPPORT  129 

women  of  sixty  and  more  have  found  positions  as 
housekeepers,  matrons,  preceptresses,  office  attend- 
ants, and  helpers  in  women's  clubs,  or  Y.  W.  C.  A.'s; 
and  they've  run  cafeterias  and  tea  rooms,  and  gone 
into  business  for  themselves.  And  surely  any 
woman  from  thirty  on  can  find  plenty  to  do." 
There  were  muttered  comments  on  all  sides.  Mrs. 
Craig  threw  her  head  back.  Her  eyes  shone.  "Why 
there's  nothing  equal  to  the  excitement  of  starting 
in  for  yourself,"  she  said  enthusiastically;  "of  build- 
ing up  a  business — ever  so  little  a  one — saving  for 

a  home — making  your  own  investments "  She 

looked  around  her,  glowing  with  the  import  of  her 
message. 

Constance's  eyes  met  hers.  "It  must  be  excit- 
ing," breathed  the  younger  woman,  her  own  eyes 
shining.  The  others  turned  and  stared  at  her. 

"It  is."  Mrs.  Craig  gave  her  a  sympathetic 
glance.  "Cashing  an  alimony  check  once  a  month — 
a  check  that's  probably  sent  with  reluctance  and 
even  hate — is  nothing  compared  to  it.  Those  women 
who  live  on  alimony  know  nothing  of  the  thrilling 
adventures  of  life — soft,  sluggish,  unimaginative 
creatures,  duller  than  the  fat  weed  that  roots  itself 
at  Lethe  wharf."  She  laughed  at  her  own  extrava- 
gance in  oration. 

"That's  all  very  well  as  talk,"  burst  out  the  thin 
sallow  woman,  "but  I'd  get  every  cent  I  could  get 
out  of  a  man — I'd  drain  the  last  farthing  from 
him." 

"Well,  why?"  asked  Mrs.  Craig  with  tolerant  at- 


130  SUPPORT 

tention,  putting  some  stitches  into  the  towel  that  she 
was  making. 

"If  he'd  made  me  suffer,  I'd  make  him  suffer,  too. 
I'd  like  to  see  him  punished.  I'd  take  everything 
that  I  could  get." 

"Punished."  The  older  woman  made  a  grimace. 
"Taking  a  few  dollars  out  of  his  bank  account  every 
month  isn't  a  very  severe  form  of  atonement.  Do 
you  think  that  a  few  dollars  could  make  up  for  what 
you  call  suffering — I  suppose  you  mean  grief  and 
self-pity  and  humiliation?  I  can't  see  that  money 
is  any  reparation  for  that." 

"It's  something,  anyhow,"  mumbled  the  other, 
looking  dazed. 

"Not  much.  Not  enough  to  lose  one's  self-respect 
for." 

"I  don't  see  why  you  keep  harping  on  self-respect," 
said  a  pretty,  well-dressed  woman,  angrily. 

"I  harp  on  it,"  Mrs.  Craig  replied,  "because  it 
doesn't  seem  very  self-respecting  to  me  to  take 
money  from  a  man  who  is  nothing  to  you,  and  for 
whom  you  do  nothing.  Why  not  take  the  same 
amount  from  Mr.  Smith,  across  the  street?  It's 
just  as  sensible.  You  do  nothing  for  Mr.  Smith; 
but  why  shouldn't  you  expect  two  hundred  dollars 
a  month  from  him,  just  as  much  as  you  do  from  a 
man  who  happens  to  have  been  your  husband,  but 
isn't  any  more?" 

"That's  a  disgusting  argument,"  was  the  reply. 

"No,  it  isn't.    It's  logical." 


SUPPORT  131 

"Logic  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  pouted  the 
pretty  woman. 

Mrs.  Craig  chuckled.  "You're  right.  It  hasn't, 
in  most  cases.  Far  from  it." 

"I  infer,"  said  Sally  Rathvon,  with  her  cheerful 
audacity,  "that  you  do  not  accept  alimony  from 
your  former  husband,  Mrs.  Craig." 

The  others  pricked  up  their  ears.  "I  do  not," 
Mrs.  Craig  answered,  with  a  friendly  look  at  her 
interlocutor.  "I  haven't  taken  anything  from  him 
since  I  got  my  first  decree,  and  then  only  a  little 
because  I  was  getting  started." 

"According  to  your  argument,  you  didn't  need 
even  that." 

"No,  I  didn't,  really.  But  I  hadn't  waked  up  to 
the  fact.  If  I  had  it  to  do  over,  I  shouldn't  take 
anything." 

There  was  silence  for  a  space.  The  successful 
business  woman  had  about  her  sufficient  evidence  of 
prosperity  to  command  a  hearing;  but  most  of  her 
audience  were  unwilling  to  be  convinced.  Some 
one  spoke  up  with  a  new  idea.  "But  not  everybody 
has  your  ability  to  engage  in  business  and  do  well." 

"They  don't  know  how  much  they  have,"  Mrs. 
Craig  retorted.  "I  didn't  know  I  had  any  till  I 
tried.  There  are  varieties  of  jobs  for  varieties  of 
talents." 

Constance  sat  transfixed.  It  was  all  true,  what 
this  self-developed  woman  had  said.  When  you 
looked  at  it  logically — which  you  seldom  did — you 
could  see  how  silly  it  was  to  expect  a  man  to  keep 


132  SUPPORT 

pouring  money  down  a  rat-hole,  as  it  were,  and 
getting  nothing  in  return. 

Mrs.  Craig  took  up  her  very  thought.  "It's  this 
way  in  marriage:  The  two  people  start  out  in  good 
faith,  he  with  the  intention  of  earning  the  money  for 
the  household,  she  with  the  object  of  keeping  the 
house,  making  a  home,  affording  him  companion- 
ship. They  fail  to  make  a  go  of  it.  If  two  men 
enter  into  a  similar  partnership,  and  don't  carry 
it  off,  neither  insists  on  the  other's  paying  him  a  fat 
sum  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  Why  make  a  man  keep 
on  paying  a  woman  for  dead  horses — just  because 
of  the  accident  of  sex?" 

The  pretty  woman  glared.  "It's  preposterous 
to  talk  in  that  fashion.  Accident  of  sex,  indeed!" 
Her  face  was  red  with  rage. 

"Well,  isn't  it  an  accident?"  said  Mrs.  Craig,  af- 
fably. "There's  too  much  made  of  the  mere  fact  of 
sex." 

"Oh,  dear!  How  right  she  is,"  thought  Constance. 
"We  women  admit  these  things  so  reluctantly.  We 
haven't  the  clearness  of  sight  to  see  them,  nor  the 
honesty  to  admit  them!"  She  found  that  she  was 
already  formulating  ideas  which  before  had  been 
confused  and  unorganized.  "I'm  what  Mrs.  Craig 
describes,"  she  thought — "a  healthy,  fairly  intelli- 
gent woman.  Why  should  any  man  carry  me  on  his 
shoulders?  It  doesn't  make  any  difference  whether 
he's  above  criticism  or  not — whether  he  has  done 
what  is  right  or  wrong;  the  principle  is  the  same. 
I  begin  to  see  that  I  can't  take  Frank's  money  to 


SUPPORT  133 

support  my  family  with,  or  even  to  support  myself. 
I  must  think  this  over  more  carefully,  clarify  my 
own  opinions  and  emotions."  She  was  absorbed 
in  her  reflections,  and  when  she  came  back  to  her 
surroundings,  she  found  that  the  conversation  had 
changed  again.  People  had  separated  into  groups. 
Mrs.  Craig  was  examining  the  sallow  woman's  filet 
jersey,  and  describing  one  which  she  had  made  for 
a  niece  in  the  high  school.  Mrs.  Clarges  was  lean- 
ing over  Constance's  shoulder,  to  ask  how  to  make 
the  triangular  inset  at  the  corner  of  the  tea  nap- 
kins. The  rest  of  the  time  was  devoted  to  feminine 
interests,  and  undisturbed  by  vital  opinions  on  sub- 
jects of  social  importance. 

Upstairs  in  the  bedroom  where  she  put  on  her 
wraps,  Constance  had  an  opportunity  to  say  in  a  low 
voice  to  Mrs.  Craig.  "Thank  you  so  much  for  what 
you  said.  It  ought  to  be  helpful  to  all  of  us." 

"I'm  glad."  The  older  woman  smiled,  asking  no 
questions. 


Mrs.  Fenton  could  hardly  wait  till  "he  and  Con- 
stance were  out  of  the  house,  before  she  vented  her 
wrath  on  Mrs.  Craig.  "I  do  think  it's  so  dreadful  to 
hear  women  talking  like  that,"  she  lamented.  "It 
seems  so  brazen,  if  you  know  what  I  mean — so  un- 
ladylike. I  hope  to  goodness  you  won't  go  around 
saying  such  things,  Connie.  It  would  drive  me  dis- 
tracted." 


134  SUPPORT 

"I  shan't  begin  right  away,"  her  daughter  an- 
swered, "though  we  never  know  what  we  are  coming 
to,  do  we,  mother?" 

Mrs.  Fenton  sighed,  shaking  her  head.  "No,  we 
don't,  I'll  confess.  I  never  thought  that  you'd " 

"That  I'd  be  getting  a  divorce." 

"No,  I  really  didn't,  any  more  than " 

"Any  more  than  you  would,  yourself." 

"Yes,  that's  it." 

"And  yet  you  did  think  of  it,  yourself,  mother," 
said  Constance  rather  cruelly. 

Mrs.  Fenton  made  indignant  disclaimer.  "Never!" 

"But  there  was  that  time,"  Constance  went  on, 
"when  father — when  he  gave  you  a  lot  of  worry. 
You  told  me  about  it  yourself."  Mr.  Fenton  had 
married  somewhat  late  in  life,  and,  as  it  proved,  had 
found  it  hard  to  detach  himself  from  certain  friend- 
ships of  his  bachelor  days. 

The  face  of  Mrs.  Fenton  showed  chagrin.  In  an 
unguarded  moment,  just  before  Constance's  mar- 
riage, she  had  confessed  the  worries  of  her  earlier 
years.  "It  wasn't — very  serious,"  she  stammered; 
"and  I  never  thought  of  a  divorce.  I  might,  per- 
haps, have  thought  of  a — er — temporary  separation, 
but  nothing  more." 

"Nothing  worse,  you  mean.  Oh,  well,  mother," 
Constance  rejoined,  "it's  all  an  individual  matter." 

"No,  I  won't  agree  that  it  is,"  Mrs.  Fenton  an- 
swered firmly.  "I  can't  see  that  one  can  be  indi- 
vidual in  those  things.  There's  a  duty  to  society,  a 
fixed  arrangement  about  it.  You  can't  just  do  as 


SUPPORT  135 

you  please.  It's  sort  of  arranged  for  you,  if  you  see 
what  I  mean." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  see,  plainly.  It's  arranged  all  right," 
said  Constance. 

"After  all,"  Mrs.  Fenton  concluded,  "that's  the 
way  it  should  be.  People  shouldn't  be  allowed  to 
do  as  they  please." 

"Perhaps  not."  Constance  was  smiling  medita- 
tively. "They  don't  get  much  chance  as  it  is,  any- 
how." 


CHAPTER  VIII 


ALISON  SHARLAND'S  appearance  at  the  Fenton 
home  was  now  becoming  a  commonplace.  He  came 
over  once  a  week  or  oftener,  to  read  plays  for  an 
hour.  He  took  Constance  out  in  his  car,  too;  but 
the  fall  rams  and  snow  made  motoring  undesirable. 
He  was  not  an  exhilarating  companion.  He  did  not 
talk  much,  nor  laugh  a  great  deal.  His  manner  had 
been  modified,  no  doubt,  by  his  banking  experience, 
which  required  reticence,  dignity,  and  caution. 
There  was  also  the  effect  of  the  death  of  Buford 
Clarke;  that  blow  had  perhaps  contributed  to  make 
him  graver  and  quieter.  He  suited  her  better,  Con- 
stance thought,  for  his  very  quality  of  reserve.  She 
was  in  no  mood  for  an  attempt  at  frivolity  or  an  as- 
sumption of  gaiety,  such  as  some  men  demanded. 
It  soothed  her  to  feel  that  she  did  not  have  to  chatter 
and  giggle  and  search  about  in  her  mind  for  quips 
and  sallies  which  might  divert  a  tired  business  man. 
His  reposeful  manner  suggested  not  weariness  but 
satisfaction. 

"Does  your  day's  work  tire  you?"  she  inquired. 

He  considered.  "No,  it  doesn't,  really.  It  in- 
terests me.  I  don't  feel  tired  at  all." 

136 


SUPPORT  137 

She  was  relieved.  "I  don't  have  to  entertain  him," 
she  said  to  herself. 

So  they  read  their  plays,  and  sometimes  made 
little  show  of  speech.  Sharland  read  aloud,  steadily, 
somewhat  monotonously,  without  straining  for  dra- 
matic effect.  She  would  have  hated  any  attempt 
at  elocution. 

Constance,  letting  her  eyes  rest  upon  him  as  he 
read,  was  gratified  by  his  aspect.  His  face  was  finely 
cut,  though  hard  in  outline,  and  in  the  rigidity  of 
the  muscles  about  the  jaw.  His  clothes  were  con- 
servative, and  yet  correct.  There  was  a  touch  of 
distinction  in  his  collar  and  tie.  Was  he  overcon- 
ventional  in  appearance  and  mentality?  On  reflec- 
tion, Constance  thought  not.  If  he  had  been,  she 
added  a  footnote  to  her  meditations,  he  probably 
would  not  be  coming  to  see  her  at  all. 

He  was  not  curious  about  her  situation.  He 
seemed  to  take  it  for  granted,  to  recognize  no  cause 
for  question  or  awkwardness.  This  small  portion  of 
masculine  attention  was  pleasant  to  a  lone  woman, 
and  it  was  safe  and  sane,  with  no  immediate  pros- 
pect of  complications.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fenton  re- 
garded him  with  complacence.  "It  seems  nice  to 
have  Alison  Sharland  call,"  said  Mrs.  Fenton.  "I  al- 
ways thought  he  was  a  nice  young  man — sort  of 
steady  and  well-behaved.  And  he  makes  a  lot  of 
money,  I've  heard.  Of  course,  there  was  that  affair 
of  his — with  the  Farrar  girl.  There  was  something 
mysterious  about  it.  Then  he  was  gone  a  while, 
and  when  he  came  back,  he  was  steadier  than  ever. 


138  SUPPORT 

He  doesn't  seem  to  get  attracted  to  any  girl,  now, 
though  I  guess  he  takes  one  out,  once  in  a  while." 
He  never  took  Constance  out,  except  in  his  car. 
There  was  not  much  to  go  to  in  Blanchard,  though 
there  were  occasional  good  plays  and  concerts.  She 
was  vaguely  uncomfortable  because  he  did  not  ask 
her  to  go  to  them,  and  yet  she  knew  that  she  would 
be  still  more  uncomfortable  if  she  tried  going  out 
with  him  in  public.  She  had  never  made  up  her 
mind  to  ask  anyone  about  Hilda  Farrar.  "Some- 
time I'll  know,"  she  said,  and  that  was  enough.  She 
knew  of  a  certainty  that  she  shrank  from  finding 
out  the  truth. 


One  evening  she  ventured  upon  the  subject  which 
was  engrossing  her.  Something  had  been  said  about 
Mary  Foster.  "I  met  that  aunt  of  hers,  Mrs.  Craig, 
a  while  ago,"  said  Constance — "the  insurance  wo- 
man." 

"She  comes  to  our  bank,"  said  Sharland.  "She 
seems  like  an  interesting  sort  of  person." 

"She  is."  Constance  spoke  with  fervor.  "She 
has  ideas — real  ones." 

"About  what?" 

"Oh,  women,  chiefly,  and  women's  places  in  the 
world.  She  doesn't  believe  in  a  divorced  woman's 
getting  an  allowance  from  her  husband,  for  instance. 
What  do  you  think  about  it?"  She  asked  the  ques- 
tion in  an  offhand  way,  and  yet  she  waited  curiously 
for  his  answer. 


SUPPORT  139 

He  parried.  "Think  about  it?"  He  spoke  neg- 
ligently, studying  the  title-page  of  a  book.  "Just 
what  do  you  mean?" 

Constance  grew  nervous.  "Why,  I  mean  do  you 
think  it's  right  for  a  woman  to  take  an  allowance — 
especially  a  woman  who  hasn't  any  children  to  bring 
up?"  She  tried  to  keep  her  voice  impersonal. 

Sharland  did  not  look  up.  "It's  usually  done, 
isn't  it?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  it's  usually  done,"  she  replied.  "But  does 
that  prove  anything?  That  doesn't  prove  that  it's 
right,  does  it?" 

"Right?  Why  shouldn't  it  be  right?"  The  man's 
voice  had  a  shade  of  impatience. 

"I  thought,"  she  faltered,  "that  you  might  have 
some  opinion  on  the  subject." 

"No.  I  never  thought  about  it  much.  I  dare  say 
it's  all  right.  It  might  depend  somewhat  on  how 
much  the  woman  is  to  blame  for  the  separation." 

"I've  been  thinking  about  it "  Constance 

could  not  go  on.  She  had  received  no  encourage- 
ment from  Sharland. 

"Did  you  ever  notice  what  Lord  Dunsany's  full 
name  is?"  he  inquired,  still  perusing  the  title-page. 

"No,  I'm  not  sure."  She  saw  that  Alison  was  not 
eager  to  enter  into  any  discussion  of  her  personal 
affairs,  whether  from  shyness  or  indifference  she  did 
not  know.  Perhaps  he  feared  that  she  might  take 
too  much  for  granted  if  he  exhibited  such  an  in- 
terest. She  had  thought,  hazily,  that  she  might  ob- 
tain some  encouragement  or  consolation  from  her 


140  SUPPORT 

friend.  She  found  his  reticence  trying.  He  was 
easy  and  agreeable  up  to  a  certain  point.  Then  one 
encountered  something  either  unyielding  or  elusive. 
There  was  no  openness  or  frankness  in  his  nature; 
no  constant  dependable  friendliness.  One  would 
hardly  dare  to  count  on  him  for  anything,  Constance 
thought,  ruefully.  But  after  all,  what  would  she 
want  to  count  on  him  for,  except  this  non-significant, 
more  or  less  superficial  companionship? 


Ever  since  the  tea  at  Sally  Rathvon's,  Constance 
had  been  turning  over  in  her  mind  the  thesis  pro- 
pounded by  Mary  Foster's  aunt.  She  found  her- 
self repeating  word  for  word  what  Mrs.  Craig  had 
said.  "Why  should  a  man  be  expected  to  carry, 
etc."  "Soft,  unimaginative  creatures,  duller  than 
the  fat  weed."  Just  why  should  she  be  receiving  a 
check  every  month  from  Frank,  a  good  solid  sum, 
as  Wilbur  put  it,  which  she  didn't  have  to  turn  her 
hand  over  to  get? 

"I'm  getting  it  because  the  law  allows  me  to  have 
it;  compels  him  to  give  it.  But  allowing  and  compel- 
ling have  nothing  to  do  with  the  right  or  the  wrong 
of  the  matter.  Frank  is  supposed  to  give  it  to  me 
so  that  I  will  have  something  to  live  on,  now  that  I 
am  deprived  of  his  direct  support.  But  he  didn't 
give  me  anything  before  we  were  married;  I  earned 
a  little  of  my  support,  and  got  the  most  of  it  from 
my  father.  Why  should  Frank  give  me  anything, 


SUPPORT  141 

now  that  our  marriage  is  dissolved?  Because  I  am 
supposed  to  be  less  able  or  less  inclined  to  support 
myself  than  I  was  before  my  marriage.  The  as- 
sumption is  that  I  married  expecting  to  be  sup- 
ported, and  now  that  I  am  not  married  any  more,  I 
am  to  be  consoled  by  being  supplied  with  money. 
The  truth  is  that  I  am  not  less  able  to  support  my- 
self. I  am  perfectly  well,  wiser  than  I  was,  more 
courageous.  I  ought  to  have  more  to  give  the  world, 
not  less.  It  does  seem  degrading,  in  a  way,  to  keep 
accepting  money  from  Frank,  just  out  of  greed  or 
vindictiveness.  But" — here  the  test  would  come — 
"have  I  the  strength  of  mind  to  give  it  up?" 

She  figured  to  herself  the  result  of  her  action,  if 
she  should  let  go  her  hold  on  what  Frank  contributed 
to  her  support.  She  imagined  the  outcry  of  her 
family,  their  amazement  and  condemnation.  It 
would  be  more  than  she  could  endure.  And  yet  her 
present  condition  was  unendurable,  too.  She  was 
taking  the  money  which  she  did  not  feel  she  had 
any  good  reason  for  accepting,  and  it  was  going  out 
in  large  lumps  or  small  dribbles  for  the  support  of 
her  father  and  mother  and  Rose.  It  would  be  selfish 
and  unreasonable  to  withhold  the  money  when  it 
was  so  badly  needed  in  the  household.  She  could 
not  refuse  to  give  it,  as  long  as  it  came  in.  But  why 
should  it  be  so  needed?  Her  father  had  had  a  good 
business,  and  should  still  be  capable  of  supporting 
his  wife.  Rose  should  be  able  to  support  herself. 
Why  should  Wilbur  make  sacrifices  in  order  to  main- 
tain them?  Why  should  Frank  Moffatt  be  called 


142  SUPPORT 

upon  to  supply  the  wherewithal  for  these  three  peo- 
ple, who  had  no  claim  upon  him,  either  legal  or 
moral?  "It  isn't  right.  It  isn't  fair,"  Constance 
repeated.  "I'll  have  to  do  something  about  it,  but 
I  don't  know  what."  There  were  several  things 
that  she  wanted  to  do  something  about,  but  she  had 
not  yet  succeeded  in  dealing  effectually  with  any  of 
them. 


"Mother,  you  don't  go  out  enough,"  said  Con- 
stance one  day,  early  in  December.  "You  stay  in 
as  if  you  were  a  convict.  That  day  at  Sally's  is 
almost  the  only  time  that  you've  been  out  since  I 
came  home." 

"It's  hard  for  me  to  get  out,  Connie,"  Mrs.  Fen- 
ton  replied.  "Your  father  hates  to  have  me  go." 

"Just  why?"  asked  Constance  in  a  challenging 
tone. 

"You  know;  he  likes  to  have  us  all  stay  at  home," 
said  Mrs.  Fenton  with  an  uneasy  glance  at  the 
study  door. 

"Is  it  because  he  loves  us  so  much  that  he  can't 
bear  to  have  us  out  of  his  sight?" 

"Oh,  Connie,  what's  the  use?"  Mrs.  Fenton  was 
nervous  and  bewildered  when  real  issues  were  to  be 
faced. 

"Of  course  I  shouldn't,  mother,"  Constance  re- 
sponded. "But  see  here:  why  don't  you  go  to  the 
D.  A.  R.  meeting  on  Tuesday  afternoon?  They're 
having  special  speeches,  and  a  social  time,  with  re- 


SUPPORT  143 

freshments.  You  always  like  going  to  the  D.  A.  R. 
Let's  both  go." 

"That  would  be  nice,"  Mrs.  Fenton  sighed.  "If 
your  father " 

"Nonsense.  Don't  tell  him  you're  going  till  you- 
're ready  to  go." 

"Well,  I  think  I  will  go,"  said  Mrs.  Fenton  with 
courage.  "I  should  love  to  see  some  of  the  ladies 
that  I  don't  get  a  chance  to  see  very  often.  Do  you 
think  my  black  net  is  all  right?" 

"It  looks  fine,  mother.  And  your  nice  real  lace 
always  makes  you  look  like  such  a  lady."  Constance 
had  ever  taken  pride  in  her  handsome  mother. 

"Well,  we'll  join  a  conspiracy,  then,"  Mrs.  Fen- 
ton agreed  with  a  faint  smile. 

On  Monday,  Constance  and  her  mother  were  in 
the  dining-room.  Suzanne  was  in  the  kitchen  with 
her  "Auntie"  (the  child  had  been  coming  once  or 
twice  a  week),  and  Constance's  mind  was  on  the 
little  girl.  She  did  not  notice  Mr.  Fenton  standing 
in  the  door  when  she  said  to  her  mother,  "The  meet- 
ing to-morrow  begins  at  three;  so  we'll  have  to  start 
getting  ready  rather  early." 

"Did  I  hear  you  say  you  were  going  out?"  Mr. 
Fenton  asked,  looking  at  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Fenton  hesitated,  glancing  at  Constance. 
"Why,  yes,  Fred,"  she  explained.  "Connie  wanted 
me  to  go  to  a  meeting  of  the  D.  A.  R.  They're  go- 
ing to  have  a  special  performance,  something  very 
interesting." 

The    old   man   made    a   contemptuous    gesture. 


144  SUPPORT 

"My  God ! "  he  cried,  "a  lot  of  women  that  don't  have 
anything  to  do  but  get  together  and  cackle!  Are 
they  all  old  maids?  Don't  they  have  any  homes  or 
any  husbands,  or  anything  to  keep  them  where  they 
belong?"  He  was  gesticulating  with  his  pipe,  which 
he  held  in  his  left  hand,  while  with  the  other  he 
sought  for  tobacco  in  his  pocket. 

"Most  of  them  are  the  nicest  married  women  in 
town,  Fred,  and  I  never  heard  of  their  neglecting 
their  families,"  Mrs.  Fenton  answered  with  increas- 
ing agitation. 

"They  must  be  neglecting  them,  if  they're  galli- 
vanting around  to  D.  A.  R.  meetings,  and  committees 
for  the  Rejuvenation  of  Tame  Poodles."  The  old 
man's  face  was  distorted  by  a  sneer. 

"Now,  Fred,  don't  take  on  like  that,"  Mrs.  Fen- 
ton  entreated.  "A  woman  likes  to  get  out  once  in 
a  while,  and  see  what's  going  on." 

"I  don't  see  why.  Her  home  ought  to  be  enough," 
Mr.  Fenton  grumbled.  "I  never  did  have  much  pa- 
tience with  these  clubs." 

"No,  Fred,  I've  heard  you  say  so.  But  I  like  to 
go  once  in  a  while,  just  the  same." 

"Women  are  all  alike."  Muttering  to  himself, 
the  old  man  turned  away,  filling  his  pipe,  and  cram- 
ming the  tobacco  down  vengefully. 

"Don't  mind  him,  mother,"  said  Constance.  "I'm 
sorry  he  heard  what  I  said,  but  we'll  go  on  with  our 
plans,  and  pay  no  attention."  She  went  to  the 
kitchen  to  see  that  Suzanne  was  drinking  enough 
milk.  She  had  detected  an  improved  color  in  the  li t- 


SUPPORT  145 

tie  girl's  cheeks,  since  she  had  been  coming  to  the 
house. 

The  next  noon,  as  the  family  were  finishing  their 
lunch,  Mr.  Fenton  pushed  back  his  chair  from  the 
table  with  a  motion  which  indicated  physical  dis- 
tress. "I  don't  feel  well,"  he  complained.  "I  guess 
I'll  have  to  lie  down  on  the  sofa." 

"What's  the  matter,  Fred?"  asked  his  wife  anx- 
iously. 

"I  just  don't  feel  well,  that's  all."  Mr.  Fenton 
stretched  himself  on  the  sitting-room  sofa  with  a 
groan.  "I'll  have  to  have  some  warm  flannels  on 
my  back,"  he  called,  after  a  few  minutes. 

"Won't  a  hot  water  bag  do?"  queried  his  wife, 
with  a  glance  of  consternation  at  her  daughter. 

"No.  That's  a  damp  heat.  What  I  need  is  a  dry 
application." 

Mrs.  Fenton  hurried  to  get  the  warm  flannel,  and 
when  it  was  applied,  the  old  man  subsided,  his  eyes 
shut,  and  a  steamer  rug  drawn  up  to  his  chin.  After 
half  an  hour,  he  seemed  to  be  asleep. 

"You  go  and  get  dressed,  mother,"  whispered  Con- 
stance. "They  begin  early,  you  know.  I'll  stay 
here  till  you're  ready." 

When  Mrs.  Fenton  had  gone,  her  husband  opened 
his  eyes.  "Addie!"  he  shouted,  making  an  unneces- 
sary noise. 

"Mother's  upstairs,"  said  Constance,  coming  to 
the  side  of  the  couch. 

"What's  she  up  there  for?"  inquired  the  invalid 
fretfully. 


146  SUPPORT 

"Why,  she  had  something  to  see  to.  Is  there  any- 
thing that  I  can  do?" 

"My  stomach  hurts  me,"  was  the  answer.  "Are 
there  any  of  those  middle-sized  pellets  left?  Look 
in  the  upper  right-hand  drawer  of  the  secretary  in 
the  study." 

Constance  went  and  came.  "They're  all  gone," 
she  announced.  "I'm  sorry."  To  herself  she  was 
saying,  "I  don't  suppose  they  were  anything  but 
sugar,  anyway."  "You'll  be  all  right,  father,"  she 
said  in  a  cheerful,  "all's-right-with-the-world"  tone, 
such  as  one  employs  with  the  near-sick.  She  did  not 
believe  that  he  was  in  any  serious  or  even  painful 
condition. 

"How  do  you  know  I'll  be  all  right?"  he  snapped. 
Constance  did  not  answer.  "Addie!"  he  called 
loudly. 

"Mother  can't  come.  She's  busy,"  Constance  ex- 
postulated. 

The  old  man  was  quiet  for  a  while ;  then  he  began 
to  groan.  Presently  Mrs.  Fenton  came  into  the 
room,  wearing  her  best  gown.  She  made  an  attrac- 
tive figure,  with  her  gray  hair  coiled  and  puffed 
softly,  and  fine  bits  of  lace  at  neck  and  wrists.  "Did 
I  hear  him  call?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.    And  I  told  him- 

Mr.  Fenton  rose  on  his  elbow,  and  stared  at  his 
wife's  gala  costume.  "What!"  he  burst  out,  as  if 
astounded,  "you  aren't  going  out  and  leave  me  here 
alone,  sick  as  I  am?" 

"But,  Fred,"  Mrs.  Fenton  appealed  to  him,  "can't 


SUPPORT  147 

you  manage  till  Rose  comes  home?  Connie  and 
I " 

Mr.  Fenton  let  himself  fall  back  heavily  upon 
the  sofa.  He  closed  his  eyes  as  if  with  an  access  of 
suffering.  "Oh,  go  on,"  he  murmured.  "Go  on — if 
your  club  means  more  to  you  than  a  sick  husband." 

Constance  nudged  her  mother,  as  if  to  say,  "Don't 
give  in."  Mrs.  Fenton  was  saying  in  a  weak  voice, 
"Why,  it  doesn't,  of  course.  But  I  get  out  so  sel- 
dom  " 

"Go  on,  then!  go  on!"  The  old  man  interrupted 
himself  with  another  groan. 

"I  can't  go,  Connie,"  whispered  Mrs.  Fenton. 

Constance  drew  her  aside.  "I  honestly  don't  be- 
lieve that  there's  anything  the  matter  with  him," 
she  said.  "He  just  wants  to  keep  us  in." 

"I'll  have  to  stay,  anyhow,"  sighed  the  mother. 

"No,  I  will,  then."  Her  mother  tried  to  detain 
her,  but  she  went  back  to -her  father.  "I'm  going  to 
stay  with  you  this  afternoon,"  she  said  as  pleasantly 
as  she  could.  "I  especially  want  mother  to  go  to  this 
meeting.  She  gets  out  so  little." 

"You  won't  do."  The  patient  shifted  his  posi- 
tion, biting  his  lips  to  suppress  a  moan.  His  fore- 
head was  drawn  with  deep  furrows;  his  thin  yellow 
hands  clutched  the  edge  of  the  steamer  rug. 

"Is  he  really  suffering,  I  wonder?"  thought  Con- 
stance. "Oh,  yes,  I  can  take  care  of  you,"  she  per- 
sisted. 

"I  tell  you  you  can't.  Your  mother  knows  how. 
She  can  do  things  that  you  can't." 


148  SUPPORT 

"Oh,  well,  if  that's  the  case "  Constance 

stepped  back,  pondering. 

Mrs.  Fenton  took  her  by  the  arm  and  led  her  to 
the  next  room.  "You  go,  Connie,"  she  begged.  "I'll 
stay.  There's  no  use  in  both  of  us  staying  at  home." 

"I  hate  to  go  and  leave  you."  Constance  spoke 
uncertainly. 

"It  doesn't  matter.    You  will  go,  won't  you?" 

"I  suppose  so."  Constance  knew  that  her  mother 
would  be  the  more  distressed  if  she  stayed.  She 
went  and  put  on  her  dress  and  wraps.  When  she 
came  downstairs,  there  was  the  smell  of  medicine 
in  the  house. 

Her  mother  came  out  into  the  hall.  "It's  always 
been  like  this,"  she  said  with  an  air  of  resignation. 
"It  isn't  this  one  thing." 

"Yes.  I  know."  Constance  leaned  over  and  gave 
her  mother  a  kiss  on  the  cheek.  "Well,  I  don't  know 
what  we  can  do,"  she  sighed. 

Mrs.  Fenton  did  not  answer,  but  stood  twisting 
her  thin,  reddened  hands.  Constance  went  out,  and 
shut  the  door  harder  than  she  needed.  Snow  had 
fallen  during  the  night,  and  the  sun  upon  it  nearly 
blinded  her.  The  sky  was  triumphantly  blue,  the 
bare  trees  showing  starkly  against  it.  A  mountain 
ash  held  drooping  clusters  of  scarlet  berries.  Rose 
trees  carried  stiffly  their  plenitude  of  red  hips.  Con- 
stance noted  how  lovely  the  lilac  bushes  were,  with- 
out their  leaves.  The  stems  sprang  up  with  the 
grace  of  a  fountain  playing.  But  the  winter  world 
did  not  hold  her  long.  Her  heart  was  bitter  with 


SUPPORT  149 

what  she  had  just  seen  and  heard.  "As  mother 
says,  it  isn't  just  this  one  thing,"  she  said  aloud. 
She  walked  the  six  blocks  to  the  D.  A.  R.  hall  with- 
out noticing  what  she  passed.  She  only  saw  her 
mother  twisting  her  hands  in  the  shabby  hall — 
smelled  the  nauseous  scent  of  medicine,  heard  the 
artificial  groans  of  the  old  man  in  the  sitting-room. 
"Oh,  well!  I  can't  get  into  a  state  over  it."  She 
roused  herself  to  greet  her  friends  as  she  went  into 
the  building. 

By  the  time  the  social  hour  came,  she  felt  suffi- 
ciently restored  to  enjoy  meeting  her  old  acquaint- 
ances. Sally  Rathvon  was  there,  less  animated  and 
less  rosy  than  she  had  been,  but  enticing  in  dull  blue 
with  white  fox  fur.  "Why  didn't  your  mother 
come?"  she  asked. 

"Father  was  ill,"  said  Constance  briefly.  She  did 
not  feel  like  going  into  the  subject  of  her  father's 
behavior. 

"Really  ill?"    Sally's  eyebrows  went  up. 

Constance  shrugged.     "How  can  one  tell?" 

"It's  too  bad,"  commented  Sally;  then  she  said, 
"I  want  you  to  meet  Mrs.  Gallatin.  She's  lived  in 
New  York." 

Mrs.  Gallatin  proved  entertaining.  Mrs.  Crow, 
also  a  new  acquaintance,  was  cultivated  and  well- 
mannered.  Professor  Clarges'  wife,  ponderously 
benign,  squeezed  Constance's  hand,  and  said,  "It's 
nice  to  have  you  back."  Constance  had  always  liked 
the  Clarges  pah-,  but  had  seen  them  seldom  since 
her  return.  "Your  mother  isn't  here?"  the  other 


150  SUPPORT 

lady  went  on.  "Too  bad.  She  doesn't  get  out 
much." 

"No.  She  stays  at  home  too  closely,"  Constance 
agreed.  Looking  about  at  the  crowd  of  well-dressed, 
soft-voiced  women,  she  wondered  why  her  mother 
should  be  debarred  from  joining  them.  Was  Mr. 
Fenton  more  grasping  than  most  men,  or  did  the 
other  women  have  more  courage  to  shake  off  the 
strangling  hands  of  selfishness?  She  felt  another 
pang  of  resentment.  Why  were  men  so  greedy  and 
demanding?  It  must  be  the  way  in  which  their 
mothers  brought  them  up;  so  after  all  the  women 
were  to  blame,  even  for  that! 

Tea  came,  with  small  cakes  and  tartlets.  More 
acquaintances  appeared.  Across  the  room,  Con- 
stance saw  Katherine  Sharland,  but  did  not  come 
near  enough  to  speak.  Constance  had  to  some  de- 
gree recovered  from  her  earlier  state  of  self-con- 
sciousness, and  the  suspicion  that  she  was  being 
singled  out  for  discussion. 

When  the  time  came  for  her  to  go  home,  she 
walked  along  in  the  cold  blue  twilight  with  Sally 
and  Mrs.  Gallatin.  They  left  her  at  a  corner,  and 
she  turned  to  go  on  alone.  A  crunching  of  footsteps 
and  a  surprised  "Hello!"  made  her  swing  quickly 
about.  Alison  Sharland  was  walking  beside  her. 
"Well!  how  fortunate  for  me!"  he  cried.  "I  thought 
I  recognized  Sally  Rath  von,  then  your  voice.  You've 
been  at  some  feminine  festivity,  I  suppose:  tea  and 
gossip  and  all  that." 

"There  were  gallons  of  tea,  but  I  didn't  hear  a 


SUPPORT  151 

word  of  gossip,"  she  answered.  She  was  thinking, 
"Gossip:  there  was  probably  someone  there  who 
could  have  told  me  about  Hilda  Farrar."  But  she 
knew  that  she  did  not  want  to  hear. 

"It  must  have  been  an  assemblage  of  dumb 
women,'"  laughed  Alison. 

"Nonsense!  What  a  cynic  you  are,"  Constance 
returned. 

"Not  cynical,  but  experienced,"  he  gave  answer. 
"I've  been  a  victim  of  gossip  once  or  twice  myself." 

"Really?"  Constance  took  refuge  in  the  conven- 
tional phrase.  "I  don't  think  men  mind  much,"  she 
added.  "They  sort  of  glory  in  it.  It  emphasizes 
their  importance." 

"Who's  the  cynic  now?"  he  asked.  "Don't  women 
like  being  in  the  limelight,  too?" 

"Not  unless  they're  moving  picture  stars.  Fear  of 
gossip  makes  almost  every  woman  a  coward,"  she 
replied. 

"Strange,"  he  said  seriously,  "when  women  are  so 
brave  in  other  ways." 

"Women  are  very  fine,  now,  aren't  they?"  she  said 
simply. 

He  considered.  "Yes,  they  are.  Somehow  I  al- 
ways expected  you  to  do  something,  Connie.  You 
seemed  to  have  so  much  in  you.  If  you  hadn't 
married " 

The  heart  of  Constance  was  stirred.  He  had  not 
called  her  Connie  since  the  old  times.  He  was  so 
reticent  that  he  seldom  spoke  words  of  praise.  "I 
always  had  an  idea  that  I  was  going  to  'do  some- 


152  SUPPORT 

thing/  too,"  she  confessed.  "But  I  never  made  it 
definite;  and  then,  as  you  say,  my  marriage " 

"It  needn't  stultify  a  woman,"  he  broke  in.  "She 
could  develop  in  her  home,  be  a  delightful  hostess, 
form  a  social  circle — count  for  a  good  deal  in  that 
way.  That's  just  as  good  as  painting  pictures  or 

making  speeches.  With  the  right  man "  He  did 

not  finish. 

"Yes,  it  takes  the  right  man  for  that,"  Constance 
assented.  They  had  reached  her  gate.  She  held 
out  her  hand. 

"Good  night.  I'm  coming  in  soon."  He  turned 
and  went  on. 

Constance  found  her  mother  in  the  kitchen,  still 
wearing  her  best  dress,  with  an  apron  tied  over  it. 
Rose  was  taking  some  dishes  out  of  the  cupboard. 
"How's  father?"  asked  Constance,  loosening  her  fur. 
Her  talk  with  Alison  had  enlivened  her.  She  stood 
tall  and  bright-eyed,  her  cheeks  red,  her  brown  hair 
blown. 

"Better,"  answered  Mrs.  Fenton.  "He's  up,  read- 
ing." 

"He  just  did  it  to  keep  you  both  at  home,"  flared 
Rose.  "I  can't  see  why  mother  stands  for  it.  She 
ought  to  have  put  on  her  hat  and  gone." 

"How  could  I?"  asked  Mrs.  Fenton  wearily. 

"I  could,"  Rose  blustered.  "You  knew  perfectly 
well  that  he  was  shamming." 

"No,  no!  he  wasn't."  Mrs.  Fenton  tried  to  look 
shocked.  "He  really  thought  he  felt  badly — or  at 
least  he  thought  he  thought "  She  floundered. 


SUPPORT  153 

Rose  smiled  maliciously.  "Poor  mother!  Women 
have  always  been  just  as  long-suffering." 

Constance  went  about  her  tasks  and  ate  her  dinner 
in  silence.  The  constant  friction  of  the  household 
was  wearing  on  her.  All  this  talk  and  bickering — 
and  more  than  that,  the  mental  antagonism  in  the 
atmosphere — made  her  feel  depressed  and  hopeless. 
Her  exhilaration  was  gone.  She  longed  poignantly 
for  a  place  of  her  own  where  she  could  express 
herself,  have  harmony  and  peace.  She  thought  of 
Suzanne — the  little  clinging  spirit  of  the  child. 
There  might  be  a  place  for  them  both  somewhere — 
together. 


Feeling  a  little  nearer  to  her  mother,  after  their 
common  experience  with  Mr.  Fenton's  illness,  Con- 
stance attempted  to  talk  over  the  problems  which 
occupied  her  thought.  "Mother,  I've  been  wonder- 
ing  "  she  began.  She  stopped,  held  back  by  a 

doubt.  Was  it  wise  to  open  an  argument  with  Mrs. 
Fenton,  harassed  as  she  was  with  the  troubles  of  the 
home? 

"Yes?"  her  mother  encouraged  her,  without  look- 
ing up  from  the  dish-towel  which  she  was  hemming. 

"I've  been  wondering  whether  I'm  doing  right  to 
keep  on  taking  money  from  Frank." 

Mrs.  Fenton  raised  her  head  to  give  her  daughter  a 
horrified  stare.  It  seemed  to  Constance  as  if  some 
one  was  always  giving  her  that  stare.  "That  you're 
doing  right?  What  in  the  world  do  you  mean?" 


154  SUPPORT 

asked  the  mother,  when  she  had  managed  to  recover 
herself. 

"Why,  just  what  I  say."  Constance  decided  to 
speak  plainly.  "I  don't  know  whether  it's  really 
the  square  thing  for  me  to  keep  on  taking  money 
from  him,  when  we're  divorced,  or  as  good  as  di- 
vorced, and " 

Mrs.  Fenton  looked  puzzled  and  alarmed.  "I 
don't  understand,"  she  said.  "If  you're  divorced, 
then  you  have  a  right  to  take  money  from  him, 
haven't  you?" 

"That's  just  what  I'm  getting  at,"  returned  Con- 
stance evenly.  "Have  I  a  right?" 

Mrs.  Fenton  kept  on  staring.  "Women  always  do 
take  it,  don't  they?"  she  asked.  "I  never  heard  of 
anybody  that  didn't,  except  that  disagreeable  Mrs. 
Craig,"  she  added  spitefully. 

"There  have  been  people  who  didn't,"  Constance 
replied.  "But  that  isn't  the  point." 

"I  don't  see  any  other  point."  Mrs.  Fenton's 
face  was  drawn  and  worried. 

"The  question  is  whether  /  ought  to  take  money 
from  Frank." 

"I  should  think  you  should  take  it!"  Mrs.  Fen- 
ton's  lips  trembled;  her  cheeks  suddenly  flamed. 
"Hasn't  he  ruined  your  life?  I  should  think  he 
could  do  that  much  for  you — give  you  a  few  dol- 
lars, to  keep  you  from  being  dependent  on  your 
family." 

Constance  suppressed  a  smile  at  the  idea  of  her 
"dependence"  upon  her  father  and  mother.  "Now, 


SUPPORT  155 

mother,  listen,"  she  said  as  calmly  as  she  could,  "I'm 
not  sure  that  Frank  has  spoiled  my  life,  any  more 
than  I've  spoiled  his." 

Mrs.  Fenton  threw  down  her  towel  and  needle. 
"Why,  Constance  Fenton — Constance  Moffatt,  I 
mean — what  do  you  expect  me  to  understand  from 
that?"  she  cried.  Her  face  was  shocked  and  appre- 
hensive. 

"Nothing  in  the  world,  except  that  I  probably  had 
my  faults,  and  didn't  know  how  to  make  him 
happy." 

"I  guess  you  did  as  well  as  anyone  could,"  an- 
swered Mrs.  Fenton  sharply. 

"That's  very  loyal  of  you,"  said  Constance,  trying 
to  smile.  "Anyhow,  to  continue,  I'm  not  at  all  sure 
that  my  life  is  ruined." 

"Connie!"  Her  mother  gazed  at  her  in  astonish- 
ment. "Of  course  it  is.  Haven't  you " 

Constance  interrupted.  "I  strongly  suspect  that 
it  isn't.  In  fact,  I  feel  sure  that  there's  a  lot  left  of 
it — quite  untouched." 

Mrs.  Fenton  sighed  hopelessly  and  took  up  her 
sewing.  "Oh,  well,  if  you  want  to  look  at  it  in  that 
way,"  she  said.  She  was  disappointed  that  her 
daughter  should  seem  to  take  her  affliction  so 
lightly. 

"But  let  me  get  on,"  pursued  Constance.  "Even 
if  my  life  were  spoiled,  and  even  if  Frank  had  spoiled 
it,  is  that  any  reason  why  I  should  go  on  taking 
his  money?  I  mean,"  she  continued  desperately, 
before  her  mother  could  voice  her  indignation,  "is  it 


156  SUPPORT 

really  any  restitution  for  me  to  get  money — does 
money  make  up  for  a  ruined  life?" 

Mrs.  Fenton  looked  still  more  bewildered.  "In  a 
way,"  she  admitted,  "nothing  can  make  up  for  it. 
But  at  least  it  keeps  you  safe  and  comfortable." 

"It's  intended  to,"  Constance  agreed.  "But  the 
fact  is  that  I'm  not  using  Frank's  money  merely  to 
be  safe  and  comfortable.  I'm  using  it  for  my  family 
— to  buy  groceries  and  clothes,  and  pay  doctor  bills 
and  coal  bills " 

Mrs.  Fenton  threw  down  her  sewing  again  and 
began  to  cry.  "I  didn't  think  you'd  fling  it  in  our 
faces  like  that,"  she  wailed.  "It  is  terrible  for  us  to 
deprive  you  of  what  you  ought  to  have,  but — but 
we  need  it'so  and  you  get  quite  a 'lot — I  mean,  it 
leaves  you  something" 

Constance  drew  a  long  breath.  "Now,  mother, 
stop  crying,"  she  begged,  "and  listen.  I'm  not  com- 
plaining. I'd  just  as  lief  give  my  money  to  the 
family  as  not,  however  I  get  it.  But  it  strikes  me 
that  I'd  better  be  earning  it  instead  of  merely  taking 
what  someone  else  has  earned." 

Mrs.  Fenton  wiped  her  eyes,  still  sobbing.  "Earn- 
ing it  yourself?"  she  gasped.  "You  mean  going  out 
and  taking  a  position?  You'd  hate  it  now.  And, 
besides,  you  couldn't  earn  nearly  so  much." 

"Maybe  I  could,"  Constance  said  hopefully, 
though  she  was  pretty  sure  she  couldn't. 

"You  couldn't  at  all.  And  anyhow,  I  don't  see 
why  you  should  get  out  and  work  and  suffer  and 


SUPPORT  157 

scrape  along,  when  you  have  a  husband  to  sup- 
port you." 

Constance's  lips  twitched.  "But  I  haven't  a  hus- 
band to  support  me — that's  just  what  I'm  saying. 
It's  my  duty  to  earn  something  instead  of  taking  it 
from  a  man  who  isn't  my  husband." 

Mrs.  Fenton  blinked.  "Frankly,  Connie,"  she 
said,  "I  think  you're  losing  your  mind."  She  spoke 
anxiously.  "This  trouble  has  been  too  much  for 
you,  my  poor  child!" 

"Nonsense.  I'm  saner  than  I  ever  was,"  Con- 
stance returned  with  asperity. 

Mrs.  Fenton  relapsed  into  self-pity.  "If  you  can 
do  something  for  your  family,  that's  your  duty,  it 
seems  to  me.  I  honestly  don't  know  what  we'd  do 
if  it  weren't  for  you.  Wilbur  can't  take  all  of  us 
on  his  shoulders.  He  doesn't  have  any  more  than 
he  needs  for  himself.  And  I  can't  ask  Sister  Claudia 
for  any  more.  Why,  Connie,  we'd  be  in  an  awful 
predicament  if  you  gave  up  what  you  have!"  Her 
brimming  eyes  and  drooping  mouth  appealed 
strongly  to  the  sympathies  of  the  daughter. 

"But,  mother,  you  forget  that  I  said  I'd  go  to 
work  and  earn  something  to  take  its  place." 

Mrs.  Fenton  put  her  hand  on  her  daughter's  arm. 
"Promise  me  you  won't  do  anything  so  foolish,"  she 
pleaded.  "It  would  be  the  greatest  mistake  in  the 
world." 

"Well,  well,  don't  worry.  I  sha'n't  do  it  just  yet." 
Constance  tried  to  be  consoling.  "And  don't  say 
anything  to  anyone.  There's  no  use  in  raising  a 


158  SUPPORT 

family  discussion  about  nothing."  She  patted  her 
mother  on  the  shoulder.  "Cheer  up!  The  grocery 
bill  will  still  be  paid." 

"Oh,  Connie!"  Mrs.  Fenton  reached  for  the 
younger  woman's  hand  and  held  it. 

"It's  all  right,"  reiterated  Constance  with  anima- 
tion. She  put  on  her  wraps  and  went  to  take  some 
books  to  the  public  library.  "I  wish  I  hadn't  said 
anything,"  she  murmured  as  she  went. 


All  the  next  day  and  the  next  she  was  revolving 
her  problems  in  her  mind.  She  was  scarcely  con- 
scious of  the  incidents  which  passed,  so  intent  was 
she  upon  her  cogitations.  She  shrank  from  further 
discussion  with  anyone.  She  would  think  the  mat- 
ter out  more  completely  before  she  said  anything 
more. 

One  forenoon,  when  she  was  on  an  errand,  she 
went  out  of  her  way,  she  did  not  know  why,  to  pass 
the  Sharland  house.  She  caught  a  glimpse  of  Mrs. 
Sharland  at  the  window — a  frail  white-haired 
woman,  between  red  rep  curtains,  and  ensconced 
among  pieces  of  old  walnut.  "The  house  isn't  fur- 
nished in  any  better  taste  than  ours,"  thought  Con- 
stance. "How  nice  and  well-kept  it  looks  on  the 
outside!  They  have  plenty  of  money." 

"Plenty  of  money,"  she  repeated  as  she  hurried 
on.  Then  all  at  once  there  sounded  in  her  mind  the 
question,  "Why  shouldn't  I  marry  Alison  Shar- 


SUPPORT  159 

land?"  It  was  like  a  bell  ringing  suddenly  in  her 
consciousness.  Perhaps  the  idea  had  been  there  all 
along,  but  it  had  never  clamored  out  so  boldly  be- 
fore. "Why  shouldn't  I?"  She  spoke  half  aloud 
in  the  street.  Marrying  Alison  would  settle  the 
question  which  she  was  debating.  She  would  give 
up  her  allowance  from  Frank,  to  be  sure,  but  for  a 
greater  opulence  from  the  Sharland  hoard;  there 
would  be  enough  so  that  her  family  need  not  suffer. 
She  walked  more  slowly  as  she  involved  herself  hi 
the  intricacies  of  the  theme.  Alison  liked  her,  she 
felt  sure;  he  had  always  liked  her.  If  she  had  not 
married  Frank  she  might  (perhaps)  have  married 
Alison.  He  was  reticent  and  cautious  now,  not 
hasty  to  commit  himself;  but  he  must  feel  attracted, 
to  come  and  see  her  so  often.  He  could  do  as  he 
liked,  go  where  he  liked.  If  he  did  not  care  seri- 
ously for  her  companionship,  he  would  not  be  likely 
to  bother  with  her  at  all.  And  she  liked  Alison. 
Her  heart  warmed  toward  him.  If  she  did  not  really 
love  him  now — she  was  fairly  sure  that  she  did  not 
— she  could  do  so  without  much  effort.  She  had 
not  as  yet  been  willing  to  let  herself  go.  If  she 
could  permit  her  affections  to  stray  untrammeled, 
they  would  find  their  way  unhesitatingly  to  him. 
She  was  wiser  than  she  had  been  six  years  before, 
when  she  had  believed  that  love  was  some  sacred 
individual  thing:  that  you  loved  a  person  because 
he  above  all  others  was  ordained  for  you.  She  did 
not  think  that  now.  It  was  not  so  mystical  or  so 
personal.  Not  that  she  was  brazen  or  mercenary 


160  SUPPORT 

or  cynical.  But  there  should  be  wisdom  in  one's 
affections  as  well  as  everywhere  else.  She  pondered 
as  she  walked.  Here  was  Alison  Sharland :  steady, 
serious,  close-lipped,  a  good  business  man,  with 
family,  an  inheritance,  prospects,  character.  He  was 
eminently  desirable.  What  more  could  a  woman 
want  than  a  man  like  that? 

And  yet  hadn't  she  thought  that  Frank  Moffatt 
was  eminently  desirable,  too,  even  though  he  was 
so  different  from  the  other?  She  hadn't,  as  Wilbur 
said,  made  a  go  with  Frank.  What  assurance  had 
she  that  she  could  make  a  better  "go"  with  Alison? 
He  was  prouder  than  Frank,  she  knew,  more 
sensitive,  less  tolerant  of  clumsiness  and  stupidity. 
She  might  blunder  again,  make  another  failure.  She 
scrutinized  her  fear.  Perhaps  there  was,  as  she  had 
once  or  twice  suspected,  some  innate  defect  which 
would  make  it  impossible  for  her  to  have  a  happy 
marriage.  What  was  wrong  with  her?  She  must 
analyze  herself.  She  would  not  want  to  ruin  an- 
other man's  life.  She  laughed  at  her  own  phrasing. 
That  was  funny.  Hadn't  Frank  ruined  her  life? 
Everybody  told  her  so.  If  she  had  ruined  his,  he 
had  quickly  repaired  it,  she  told  herself  without 
much  bitterness.  He  had  assuaged  his  griefs  with 
another  woman.  But  after  all,  she  knew  Frank.  She 
knew  that  down  under  his  gaiety,  his  loud  laugh, 
his  apparent  immunity  from  suffering,  there  was  a 
little  secret  chamber  where  he  kept  his  feelings — 
real  ones — and  an  exact  unwavering  estimate  of 
values.  Down  in  that  secret  chamber  he  was  hurt, 


SUPPORT  161 

disillusioned.  His  faith  was  marred — his  faith  in 
himself,  as  well  as  in  women.  Well,  she  couldn't 
help  it.  Things  had  turned  out  as  they  had.  There 
was  no  gain  in  worrying.  She  could  return  to  the 
question  which  had  sounded  its  silver  chiming  in 
her  heart:  Why  shouldn't  she  marry  Alison  Shar- 
land? 

6 

Curiously  enough,  that  afternoon,  Sally  Rathvon 
broached  the  same  subject.  The  two  women  had 
been  doing  needlework  together,  with  Griffith  safely 
conducting  a  seminar  on  the  Hill,  and  the  children 
out  with  Emma.  Constance  was  doing  a  set  of 
tea-napkins,  a  present  for  a  Bridgeport  girl  who 
was  going  to  be  married.  Sally  had  been  speaking 
about  the  new  Head  of  the  History  Department, 
and  Constance  had  commented  on  his  salary.  "Ali- 
son Sharland  told  me,"  she  remarked. 

Sally  was  silent,  threading  a  needle.  Then  she 
looked  up.  "Are  you  setting  your  cap  for  Alison?" 
she  said  abruptly. 

Constance  did  not  know  at  first  whether  the  ques- 
tion were  intended  to  be  humorous.  She  glinted  a 
look  at  Sally.  Her  friend's  face  was  serious,  not 
mischievous  or  coquettish.  In  the  perceptible  pause 
before  she  replied,  Constance  thought,  "Am  I? 
That's  what  I'm  wondering  myself."  She  answered 
lightly,  "Of  course  not,  Sally.  I  can't  believe  you 
aren't  joking.  Why  do  you  say  a  thing  like  that?" 

"It's  not  so  unbelievable,"  persisted  Mrs.  Rath- 


162  SUPPORT 

von.  "He's  a  good  catch;  and  so  are  you,"  she 
supplemented. 

"Thanks  for  the  afterthought."  Constance  spoke 
dryly  as  she  set  her  fine  stitches.  "I'm  not  a  very 
good  one,  I  know — a  woman  with  a  past."  She 
made  a  grimace.  "But  a  past  doesn't  matter  so 
much  nowadays  as  it  used  to." 

"No,  not  your  kind."  Sally  was  thoughtful. 
"He'd  do  well  to  get  you.  But — "  She  stopped, 
irresolute. 

"But  what?" 

"Nothing,  really.  I  just  wondered.  I  hope  you 
don't  want  him,  Connie."  Sally's  candid  eyes 
searched  for  her  friend's. 

Constance  evaded  them,  frowning.  "I  don't,"  she 
said  shortly.  "But  why?" 

"Oh,  well,  I  don't  know  that  I  should  say."  Mrs. 
Rathvon  was  purposely  vague.  "He  isn't  a  big 
man,"  she  concluded. 

"N-no.  Not  big.  But  how  many  men  are?"  Con- 
stance was  irritated  at  finding  herself  defending  Ali- 
son. She  wondered  whether  Sally  considered  her 
Griffith  "big." 

"I  don't  care  for  him  much,"  added  Sally,  with 
unwonted  bluntness. 

"He  says  you  don't  like  him,"  put  in  Constance 
quickly. 

Sally  contemplated  her,  holding  her  needle  in  the 
air.  "He  said  that,  did  he?" 

"Yes."  Constance  began  to  be  ashamed  of  her 
tattling. 


SUPPORT  163 

"Did  he  say  why?"    Sally  looked  curious. 

"M-mm — I  don't  remember  that  he  did.  He  just 
said  that  you  two  didn't  hit  it  off,  or  something." 
Constance  tried  to  recollect  what  Sharland  had 
said.  "It  seems  to  me  he  said  something  about  your 
Cousin  Buford." 

Sally  had  a  startled  air.  She  resumed  her  sew- 
ing to  cover  her  perturbation.  "What  did  Buford 
Clarke  have  to  do  with  it?"  queried  Constance,  grop- 
ing in  mental  vagueness. 

"7  didn't  say  he  had  anything,"  retorted  Sally. 

Constance  meditated.  "Do  you  know  anything 
about  Alison — anything  that  makes  you  not  like 
him?"  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Rathvon  colored.  "Aren't  we  discussing  him 
at  unnecessary  length?"  she  said. 

"You  began  it."  Constance  did  not  like  to  per- 
sist. "Anyhow,  you  needn't  worry,"  she  went  on 
flippantly.  "I'm  not  crazy  to  get  married  again. 
No  wedding  bells  for  me." 

"I  wouldn't  say  that,"  Sally  objected.  "We  all 
want  wedding  bells.  We  all  want  to  be  married  to 
the  right  man;  but  heaven  knows  very  few  of  us 
are,"  she  added  under  her  breath. 

"You  are,  aren't  you?"  Constance  shot  a  spying 
glance  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye. 

"Absolutely."  Sally  spoke  with  a  haste  not  too 
exaggerated  to  be  sincere.  "Griffith  is  perfect  for 
me.  I'm  devoted  to  him.  You  know  that,  Connie." 

"Oh,  yes.  I  know  it."  Constance  spoke  absently. 
Her  mind  had  already  turned  away  from  her  ques- 


164  SUPPORT 

tion,  and  she  was  half-envying  Sally — not  her  Grif- 
fith, of  course,  for  she  did  not  like  Griffith  any  more 
than  Sally  cared  for  Alison.  But  here  was  Sally 
with  an  affectionate  husband,  money  enough,  a 
charming  house,  two  healthy  and  intelligent  chil- 
dren, social  position,  good  clothes,  everything  that  a 
woman  could  want,  without  being  too  rich  or  too 
idle.  One  might  well  wish  to  be  in  Sally's  shoes. 
Constance  hardly  envied  her  friend's  approaching 
pangs;  and  yet,  she  told  herself  fiercely,  she  did 
envy  them,  too,  and  the  child  that  was  coming : 
the  sweet,  helpless  little  baby.  Phrases  like  that 
had  seemed  silly  and  sentimental  before;  there  was 
really  something  in  them,  after  all. 

Constance  brought  herself  back.  It  was  too  bad 
to  be  envious  of  anyone,  especially  of  her  best  friend. 
She  had  always  hated  envy  and  jealousy;  they 
seemed  to  be  so  small,  so  unworthy  of  normal 
people. 

There  was  a  pause,  each  woman  following  her 
own  train  of  thought.  Sally's  face  had  fallen  into 
its  placid  lines,  but  there  was  a  strained  look  around 
the  eyes.  "I  suppose  there's  always  a  secret  fear," 
Constance  thought.  She  knew  that  Sally  was  not 
thinking  of  Alison  Sharland.  She  herself  had  ceased 
to  dwell  upon  him.  She  was  thinking  of  the  women, 
thousands  of  them,  who  had  homes  and  husbands 
and  children  and  competence  and  harmony,  and  all 
the  good  things  of  life,  material  and  spiritual.  Why 
should  she,  among  so  many,  have  to  be  divorced, 
uprooted,  compelled  to  make  decisions,  to  solve  prob- 


SUPPORT  165 

lems,  to  work  out  her  own  destiny?  It  was  cruel 
and  unfair. 

The  pause  in  the  conversation  grew  so  long  that 
it  became  conspicuous.  Sally  looked  up.  "You  do 
such  lovely  work,  Connie,"  she  said  in  her  friendly 
way.  "Why  don't  you  do  those  things  for  sale?" 

Constance  wrinkled  her  forehead.  "Why,  I  hadn't 
thought  of  it,"  she  answered.  "Do  you  think  any- 
one would  want  them?" 

"Would  they  want  them?  Aren't  your  friends  all 
wild  to  have  them?" 

"They  do  seem  to  like  them  pretty  well,"  Con- 
stance admitted,  holding  up  her  work  to  look  at  it. 
Sally  took  one  of  the  serviettes  from  Constance's 
knee  and  examined  it. 

"It's  perfect,"  she  sighed.  "My  work  is  a  botch 
compared  to  it.  I  don't  see  why  you  don't  make 
capital  of  such  skill." 

"I  don't  believe  it  would  get  me  very  far,"  said 
Constance  with  skepticism. 

"You  never  can  tell.  Won't  you  make  two  or 
three  sets  for  me  for  Christmas  gifts  and  let  me 
pay  you?"  Constance  flushed,  hardly  knowing 
whether  to  be  incensed.  "I  know  you  don't  need  the 
money,"  said  Sally  calmly,  "with  what  you  have 
from  Frank;  but  one  can  always  use  a  little  more." 

"I  should  say."  Constance  bit  her  lips.  "Yes,  I'll 
make  them  for  you,  if  I  can  find  time  to  do  them 
before  Christmas.  It  isn't  very  far  off.  I'll  be  glad 
to  make  them."  She  was  restless  nowadays,  always 
feverishly  doing  something;  she  might  as  well  have 


166  SUPPORT 

the  serviettes  as  an  excuse.  She  loved  meticulous 
work,  took  a  feminine  delight  in  seeing  it  growing, 
finished,  laid  away  in  shining  perfection.  Men,  she 
reflected,  know  little  of  that  laborious  instinct  which 
is  as  the  breath  of  life  to  women :  to  construct,  com- 
plete, hoard,  display,  to  revel  in  the  work  of  one's 
hands.  Men  work  with  a  freer  swing,  wielding  the 
axe,  building  the  bridge,  devising  the  big  business 
deal.  Woman  is  secluded  in  the  home,  taking  her 
careful  stitches,  putting  up  the  fruits  of  the  earth  in 
cans,  content  to  see  a  pile  of  linen  rising  higher  in  a 
drawer,  a  row  of  glass  jars  glowing  redly  on  a  shelf. 

She  was  roused  from  her  meditations  by  the  voice 
of  Sally,  commenting  on  the  hour.  It  was  a  suitable 
time  to  withdraw,  Constance  discovered,  before 
Griffith  came  home.  She  made  her  adieux  as  quickly 
as  possible,  lingering  in  the  hall,  however,  to  give 
Sally  a  grateful  kiss.  This  friendship  was  the  most 
comforting  thing  in  her  life  at  the  present  time. 
Next  to  it  came  the  growing  love,  which  she  hardly 
dared  allow  herself,  for  little  Suzanne. 

She  went  around  by  the  business  section  to  buy 
the  linen  for  the  promised  serviettes.  "I'm  glad  to 
have  this  work  to  do  for  Sally,"  she  thought.  "But 
why  should  I  be  willing  to  sit  sewing  and  crochet- 
ing? Isn't  there  bigger  work  that  I  can  do?"  She 
had  gradually  become  convinced  that  she  must  do 
something,  get  used  to  working,  earn  some  extra 
money,  make  a  start  toward  being  active  and 
independent. 

She  had  taught  for  a  year  or  so  after  leaving  the 


SUPPORT  167 

State  College.  She  might  be  able  to  get  a  teaching 
position  again.  Her  university  diploma,  with  a 
year's  experience,  constituted,  she  believed,  a  per- 
petual certificate  for  teaching.  But  she  had  not 
liked  the  work,  even  in  her  earlier  unthinking  days, 
when  she  accepted  almost  anything  without  ques- 
tion. She  did  not  believe  she  could  stand  it  now, 
after  nearly  seven  years  of  comparative  freedom  and 
steady  growth.  Flinching,  she  recalled  the  big  room- 
ful of  staring,  volatile  boys  and  girls,  the  bad  air, 
the  papers  to  be  corrected,  the  visits  of  the  Super- 
intendent (the  "Snoop'intendent,"  as  the  teachers 
called  him  among  themselves),  the  reports,  the 
teachers'  meetings,  the  jealousy,  the  petty  compe- 
tition over  salaries  and  promotions.  She  had  not 
experienced  much  of  that  sort  of  thing — only  a  year 
or  two — but  to  look  forward  to  an  endless  continua- 
tion of  it — impossible!  No,  that  was  not  likely  to 
be  the  solution  of  her  problem. 


She  presented  the  idea  warily  to  Rose  that  even- 
ing. "You  aren't  thinking  of  going  to  work,  are 
you?"  Rose  stared  with  curious  eyes  over  her 
French  dictionary. 

"Not  seriously.  But  it  might  not  be  a  bad  thing 
to  consider  it  a  little."  Constance  often  felt  awk- 
ward in  discussing  things  with  Rose. 

"Considering  is  all  right,"  Rose  agreed.  "But 
teaching  is  out  of  the  question  for  both  of  us.  I 
might  do  it  for  a  year,  if  any  school  board  would 


168  SUPPORT 

have  me ;  but  as  a  permanent  job,  it's  hopeless.  Look 
at  Wilbur.  I  wouldn't  be  in  his  predicament  for 
anything,  and  he  has  more  say  of  his  own  than 
any  woman  would  have.  He'll  probably  find  some- 
thing else  to  do.  Most  men  can  if  they  try." 

"Probably  laziness  and  inertia  will  keep  me  from 
going  in  for  it,"  said  Constance. 

"You  aren't  lazy,  Con,"  rejoined  the  sister.  "You 
work  like  a  tiger,  even  when  you  don't  have  to.  But 
as  to  inertia,  that's  what  keeps  most  of  us  from 
getting  out  of  the  muddles  we're  in."  She  reflected 
— on  her  own  case,  perhaps.  "But  what  makes  you 
think  of  going  to  work?  I  suppose  you  want  to  get 
out  of  the  house.  I  don't  blame  you  for  that.  It 
isn't  exactly  hilarious  here." 

"I'm  not  seeking  something  hilarious."  Constance 

spoke  with  perplexity.  "It's "  She  did  not 

know  how  to  go  on. 

"If  you  just  spent  your  money  on  yourself,"  Rose 
was  saying,  "you  could  live  beautifully — I  mean, 
have  a  lot  of  pretty  things,  and  all  sorts  of  pleas- 
ures. But  you  spend  it  on  the  rest  of  us." 

"It  gives  me  more  satisfaction  that  way,  I  dare 
say,"  said  Constance  slowly.  She  doubted  whether 
it  did. 

"I  don't  believe  it  does,"  returned  Rose  with  can- 
dor. "But,  somehow  you  always  seem  to  have  to, 
I've  noticed.  There's  always  some  reason,  some  ur- 
gent reason,  why  you  should  pay  a  bill  or  buy  some- 
thing for  somebody.  It's  the  kind  of  thing  that  it 
would  take  a  harder  heart  than  yours  to  resist." 


SUPPORT  169 

"It  might  as  well  go  in  that  way,"  Constance  re- 
sponded. "But — I've  often  wondered  whether  it's 
fair  to  Frank." 

"Must  one  be  fair  to  Frank?"  There  was  a  tinge 
of  satire  in  Rose's  voice. 

"Well— why  not?" 

"I  don't  see  that  he's  in  this  at  all/'  said  Rose. 
"He  gives  you  money  because  he  has  to,  by  law, 
and  you  can  jolly  well  do  what  you  like  with  it." 
Her  chin  went  up. 

"Frank  wants  to  give  it  to  me.  He  wants  to  feel 
that  I'm  comfortable."  Constance  was  still  able  to 
defend  her  man. 

"He  wants  to  ease  his  conscience  for  dropping 
you,  of  course."  Rose  was  brutal  now.  "He 
wouldn't  have  dared  to  do  as  he  did  if  he  hadn't 
felt  that  he  could  put  you  off  with  a  little  money. 
He  could  make  things  right  by  supplying  you  with 
enough  to  get  along  on.  That  isn't  generosity.  It's 
self-interest  in  its  crudest  form." 

"Oh,  Rose!"    Constance  murmured  a  protest. 

"Not  that  I  blame  Frank  so  much,  you  under- 
stand," Rose  was  going  on.  "It's  all  right  if  he  can 
get  by  with  it.  We're  all  governed  by  self-interest. 
What  I'm  getting  at  is  that  this  is  the  sort  of  thing 
that  one  has  to  look  at  without  sentiment,  instead 
of  trying  to  deck  it  up  with  emotionalism.  You 
see,  it's  pure  business  with  Frank;  it's  the  means 
by  which  he  buys  what  he  wants.  So  you'd  better 
let  it  be  pure  business  with  you.  Take  it  and  do 
what  you  like  with  it.  I'm  not  advising  you  to 


170  SUPPORT 

spend  it  on  your  family,"  she  explained  hastily. 
"Spend  it  on  yourself,  and  do  it  with  a  free  hand." 

"There's  more  to  it."  Constance  choked.  There 
was  a  lot  more  to  it.  Rose  didn't  understand ;  could 
never  understand.  It  wasn't  that  Frank  had  delib- 
erately decided  to  have  another  woman,  and  to  buy 
her  (Constance)  off.  Their  separation  had  begun 
long  before  Mrs.  Carmichael  had  appeared  upon  the 
scene.  They  had  found  that  they  saw  things  dif- 
ferently, lived  life  differently,  were  two  widely  dif- 
ferentiated people,  instead  of  the  "one  flesh"  (which 
ought  to  imply  spirit)  that  the  poets  and  the  reli- 
gionists talked  about.  The  close  contact  of  an  apart- 
ment had  probably  contributed  to  their  dissensions 
of  soul.  The  freedom  which  a  man  has  in  a  great 
city  had  also  done  its  share.  And  then  there  were 
other  things — things  that  one  couldn't  tell  to  any- 
one. Mrs.  Carmichael  had  been  an  effect,  not  a 
cause.  Frank  had  taken  up  with  her  after  he  and 
his  wife  had  been  practically  sundered — that  is, 
when  it  had  become  apparent  to  both  of  them  that 
they  could  not  live  happily  together. 

Constance  stood  at  the  door  of  Rose's  room,  sunk 
in  thought.  Rose  had  gone  back  to  her  Old  French 
poem  and  her  dictionary.  Nobody  would  see, 
thought  Constance  dejectedly,  that  the  other  woman 
was,  in  a  way,  the  least  of  the  trouble.  A  temporary 
and  material  infidelity  was  nothing,  you  might  say, 
compared  to  a  permanent  constraint,  coldness,  irri- 
tation, and  repulsion.  And  that  sort  of  thing  came 
on  gradually,  was  the  result  of  essential  unlikenesses 


SUPPORT  171 

in  mind  and  character — of  incompatibility,  in  short. 
The  sin  of  the  flesh  was  wrong  of  course,  but  negli- 
gible. "Some  people  would  think  that  I  ought  to 
be  ashamed,"  she  said  to  herself.  She  ought  perhaps 
to  be  shocked  that  she  could  condone  the  great  of- 
fense in  marriage. 

She  went  away  to  her  room,  deep  in  thought. 
"It's  a  matter  of  proportion,  I  suppose."  Hardly 
anybody  was  honest  enough  to  have  a  real  sense  of 
proportion.  Married  people  could  live  in  a  state  of 
petty  deception,  insincerity,  open  wrangling;  they 
could  hurt  each  other's  pride,  destroy  each  other's 
happiness  and  hope  and  beauty  and  individuality, 
and  it  was  all  right,  as  long  as  neither  of  them  went 
out  and  committed  an  act  of  "infidelity"  technically 
so-called.  "Bosh!"  cried  Constance  aloud.  She  and 
Frank  had  been  irrevocably  divided  before  he  saw 
Mrs.  Carmichael.  If  it  hadn't  been  Mrs.  Carmichael, 
it  would  have  been  someone  else.  Rose  might  say 
what  she  liked;  she  knew  nothing  at  all  about  it. 
Rose  hadn't  lived  for  six  years  in  a  four-room  apart- 
ment with  a  man — a  well-meaning  man,  to  be  sure, 
but  a  material-minded,  free-and-easy  one,  oblivious 
of  other  people's  tastes  and  moods,  a  man  who  lived 
for  good  eating,  cigars,  gay  company,  and  "shows." 
That  wasn't  quite  fair  to  Frank,  possibly.  He  was 
not  to  be  condemned  for  being  himself.  But  let  that 
pass.  She  must  not  let  Rose's  opinion  influence  her 
too  much.  This  question  of  money  was  not  "pure 
business."  It  had  an  emotional  and  ethical  content, 
and  she  could  not  let  herself  ignore  either. 


CHAPTER  IX 


As  the  time  had  gone  on,  Constance  had  seen  al- 
most nothing  of  Schelling.  Rose  had  kept  him  away 
from  the  rest  of  the  family,  and  they  were  glad 
enough  to  keep  away  from  him.  One  evening  Rose 
said,  as  the  dinner  dishes  were  being  put  away,  "I 
have  to  go  out  to  get  those  shoes — I'm  having  the 
heels  straightened,  you  know — and  if  Herman 
comes,  will  you  look  after  him?" 

Constance  looked  confused.  "Why — of  course  I 
can,"  she  began.  "I  can  let  him  in,  if  that's  what 
you  mean." 

"You're  suggesting  that  even  that  wouldn't  be  a 
very  agreeable  task?"  said  Rose  coolly.  "Well,  you 
could  go  through  the  motions  of  opening  the  door 
and  showing  him  into  the  parlor,  couldn't  you?" 

"Certainly  I  could."  Constance  was  condemning 
herself  for  her  reluctance.  After  all,  it  was  the  very 
antagonism  of  the  family  which  had  driven  Rose  to 
bestowing  her  perverse  favor  upon  Schelling.  If 
they  acted  as  if  they  didn't  care,  perhaps  she  would 
the  sooner  come  to  her  senses.  Moreover,  here  was 
an  opportunity  to  get  some  first-hand  information 
about  the  man.  "Don't  hurry.  I'll  attend  to  him," 

she  said. 

172 


SUPPORT  173 

"That  sounds  more  like  a  threat  than  a  conces- 
sion." Rose's  laugh  had  a  sting  in  it. 

The  younger  sister  put  on  her  wraps  and  went 
out.  She  had  not  been  gone  long  when  Constance 
heard  a  ring  at  the  door-bell.  She  went  to  the  door. 
As  she  opened  it,  she  noted  with  flitting  humor  the 
change  of  expression  in  the  round  red  face  of  the 
man,  with  the  hall  light  shining  upon  it.  He  had 
expected  Rose,  and  found  a  quite  different  lady  gaz- 
ing steadily,  even  searchingly,  at  him  through  the 
gloom. 

"Is  Rose — Miss  Fenton  in?"  he  stammered.  He 
stumbled  on  the  door-step  as  he  entered. 

"She's  out,  but  she'll  be  back  presently."  Con- 
stance kept  her  voice  as  cordial  as  it  needed  to  be 
for  any  casual  visitor.  "She  told  me  to  ask  you  to 
wait." 

Schelling  came  into  the  drawing-room  with  his 
overcoat  on,  holding  his  hat  in  his  hands.  His  man- 
ner of  standing,  of  sitting  down  in  one  of  the  big 
tapestry-covered  chairs,  betrayed  him.  He  was 
neither  frankly  at  his  ease  nor  frankly  awkward. 
He  strove  to  cover  his  gaucherie  with  a  half- 
restrained  swing  of  assurance,  a  faint  and  disingenu- 
ous bluster.  To  the  merciless  gaze  of  Constance, 
he  was  that  worst  of  social  anomalies,  the  "common" 
man  neither  wise  enough  nor  simple  enough  to  ap- 
pear what  he  is,  but  pretending  something,  with  the 
suspicion  that  he  may  not  be  carrying  it  off. 

She  sat  down  on  the  sofa  and  engaged  him  in 
conversation.  The  snow  and  the  cold  weather  fur- 


174  SUPPORT 

nished  available  topics.  It  was  hard  on  the  ma- 
chines, Schelling  expounded,  to  have  to  go  plugging 
through  the  snow.  "You  feel  like  putting  them  up 
altogether,"  he  said,  "but  of  course  that  wouldn't 
do,  for  you'd  lose  too  much  cash." 

"Then  you  keep  them  going  all  winter?"  asked 
Constance. 

"Yes,  ma'am,  all  winter  long,  in  spite  of  the  snow," 
Schelling  replied.  "It's  three  feet  deep  sometimes — 
of  course  you  know,  for  you've  lived  here — but  we 
keep  the  heavy  cars  plunging  right  through.  The 
lighter  ones  we  put  up,  of  course;  and  we  don't  let 
a  car  go  out  into  the  country  unless  it's  a  case  of 
emergency." 

"I'd  forgotten  what  dreadful  winters  there  were 
out  here,"  said  Constance;  "I've  been  away  so  long." 

"This  is  a  rotten  climate  for  my  business,"  Schell- 
ing complained.  "In  the  East  and  farther  South, 
you  can  easily  run  your  car  all  the  year  round.  Here 
you're  froze  up  half  the  time,  or  buried  out  of  sight 
in  the  snow  or  mud." 

His  words  were  harmless,  Constance  perceived,  in 
spite  of  the  ungrammatical  "froze."  He  probably 
knew  better  than  that.  But  his  manner  was  clumsy, 
devoid  of  attraction. 

"Still,  we  don't  do  so  badly,"  he  said  with  osten- 
tatious cheer.  "We  make  a  lot  during  the  summer, 
you  know.  The  cars  are  out  all  the  time,  and  we 
just  leave  'em  go  wherever  they're  wanted." 

"Leave  'em  go" — that  was  hopeless.  Could  Rose 
really  care  for  a  man  who  made  so  fatuous  a  blun- 


SUPPORT  175 

der?  It  was  impossible;  not  because  a  man  might 
not  use  an  ungrammatical  expression  and  still  be  a 
man  of  distinction  and  character;  but  because  the 
kind  of  errors  which  Schelling  made  proclaimed  his 
lack  of  home  training,  which  lack  was  in  itself  a 
confession  of  vulgarity.  Constance  sat  and  mar- 
veled, scarcely  sure  of  what  was  being  said,  so  ab- 
sorbed was  she  in  her  amazement  at  the  type  of 
man  whom  Rose  had  encouraged  in  his  pursuit  of 
her  regard. 

"What  does  she  see  in  him — for  goodness'  sake, 
what  does  she  see?"  Constance  was  saying  to  her- 
self. What  an  unbiased  observer  would  see  was  a 
commonplace  man  of  German  lineage  (not  so  young 
that  youth  could  be  made  to  excuse  his  deficiencies), 
whose  qualities  were  obviously  not  such  as  were 
likely  to  interest  or  satisfy  a  fastidious  girl  like  Rose. 
"It's  beyond  me,"  Constance  confessed,  in  answer  to 
her  own  astonished  inquiries.  "Probably  she  doesn't 
really  comprehend  how  impossible  he  is;  and  per- 
haps his  motor  cars  and  his  admiration  make  up  for 
what  he  lacks  in  ancestry  and  manners." 

He  was  taking  Rose  to  the  Orpheum,  he  an- 
nounced. There  wasn't  much  you  could  go  to,  since 
the  movies  had  crowded  out  the  shows;  but  some- 
times there  was  a  good  laugh  in  a  vawd'ville,  if  you 
weren't  too  fussy  about  what  you  laughed  at. 

"Yes,  sometimes  those  things  are  very  amusing," 
the  lady  agreed.  Her  heart  sank  as  she  communed 
with  this  social  intruder.  But  it  rose  again,  upon 
further  consideration.  Surely  there  was  hope  in  the 


176  SUPPORT 

man's  very  grossness.  The  worse  he  was,  the  less 
likely  Rose  would  be  to  marry  him,  much  as  she 
might  enjoy  horrifying  her  relatives  by  permitting 
his  attentions.  Constance  resolved  not  to  worry, 
even  though  she  knew  that  other  people  wondered 
at  seeing  Rose  with  a  man  so  far  removed  from 
her  own  natural  station. 


It  rested  Constance  to  be  with  Sally,  if  Griffith 
were  not  about;  and  she  planned  her  calls  carefully 
to  avoid  him,  keeping  in  mind  a  schedule  of  his 
lectures  and  committee  meetings  at  the  College. 
There  was  a  certain  hardship  in  being  cut  off  from 
a  free  intercourse  with  Sally's  family,  but  Constance 
had  determined  to  be  grateful  for  what  she  had  of 
Sally's  company,  and  not  repine  over  what  she  was 
denied.  Mrs.  Rathvon  was  consoling  when  Con- 
stance talked  to  her  of  Rose. 

"I  don't  believe  she'll  marry  him,"  she  said,  when 
the  possibility  had  been  suggested.  "I  think  she's 
just  indulging  herself  in  a  fit  of  contrariness — just 
sticking  her  tongue  out  and  being  as  awful  as  she 
can." 

"She  told  me  she  was  going  to  defy  fate,  or  some- 
thing like  that,"  said  Constance. 

"Yes;  well,  that's  only  the  heroics  of  youthful- 
ness."  Sally  was  comforting,  even  though  her  eyes 
did  not  speak  with  so  much  assurance  as  her  lips. 
"Women  are  such  self-deceivers,"  she  went  on  after 
a  pause.  "It's  often  very  hard  for  them  to  get  at 


SUPPORT  177 

their  own  feelings  and  motives.  I'm  convinced,  Con- 
nie, in  spite  of  my  own  happy  marriage,  that  it  isn't 
the  man  that  we  love,  at  all.  It's  an  ideal,  a  state 
of  mind,  that  we  lavish  our  affection  on.  When  we 
wake  up  and  find  that  the  object  of  our  love  doesn't 
exist,  we're  shocked  and  broken-hearted,  or  proud 
and  cynical,  as  the  case  may  be." 

"On  the  whole,  then,"  meditated  Constance,  "any 
man  will  do  to  hang  one's  ideals  on?" 

"Almost  any."  Sally  smiled  in  return.  "He 
usually  has  to  be  more  or  less  of  one's  own  state 
and  stage  of  society;  not  always  even  that,  as  we 
observe  when  high-bred  girls  fall  in  love  with  chauf- 
feurs, Indian  guides,  sailors,  riding-masters,  and  club 
waiters." 

Constance  looked  at  her  friend  curiously.  "Do  you 
think  any  other  man  would  have  served  as  a  hat- 
rack  for  your  ideals  as  well  as  your  Griffith?"  she 
inquired. 

Sally  deliberated.  "Logically,  I  have  to  admit 
it,"  she  replied.  "Emotionally,  I'd  say  no.  Com- 
mon sense  compels  me  to  confess  that  there  are  a 
great  many  men  as  good-looking,  as  intelligent,  as 
agreeable  as  Grif." 

("I'll  swear  there  are!"  commented  Constance 
mentally.) 

"And  I  dare  say  any  one  of  them  would  have 
contented  me  as  well,  if  the  circumstances  had  been 
propitious.  The  fact  is,  I'm  a  contented  sort  of 
pussy-cat  person.  I  like  a  home  and  the  things  that 
go  with  it.  I  have  my  children.  I  don't  want  to 


178  SUPPORT 

get  out  and  do  things.  I'm  happy  with  my  Griffith : 
he  treats  me  well,  and  gives  me  what  he  can,  within 
reason.  If  his  name  were  David  or  Evan  instead 
of  Griffith,  I'm  pretty  sure  I'd  be  as  well  pleased 
with  life." 

Constance  stared.  "I'm  interested  to  hear  you  say 
that,  Sally,"  she  made  avowal. 

"Mind  you,  I  wouldn't  tell  Grif  this."  Sally  was 
humorously  contrite.  "He  wouldn't  understand. 
He'd  think  at  once  that  I  meant  to  say  I  don't  love 
him.  I  do  love  him  devotedly — or  what  I  think  he 
is:  it's  all  the  same  for  practical  purposes." 

Constance  sat  hi  contemplative  silence.  She  had 
not  thought  Sally  capable  of  analyzing  herself  so 
shrewdly.  She  saw  how  much  Sally  had  developed 
in  the  last  four  years.  There  was,  as  her  friend 
herself  had  confessed,  an  inherent  laziness  in  her,  or 
inertia,  or  whatever  one  wanted  to  call  it,  which 
would  prevent  her  from  ever  doing  anything,  except 
purring  and  basking  at  home.  The  world  needed 
just  such  nice,  comfortable,  serene  women — good 
home-makers  and  good  mothers — as  a  background 
for  its  larger  activities.  They  had  their  place  and 
did  their  work  and  deserved  as  much  credit,  pos- 
sibly, as  those  who  "got  out"  and  struggled  with 
social  and  political  problems. 

"I'm  amazed  at  women,  sometimes."  Sally  took 
up  another  phase  of  her  theme.  "The  marvel  is, 
how  good,  gentle,  intelligent  women  can  make  such 
fools  of  themselves  over  men — perfectly  unworthy 
men,  too.  It  makes  me  sick  when  I  think  of  some 


SUPPORT  179 

of  the  women  I  have  known,  giving  themselves  so 
generously,  so  loyally,  to  blockheads  or  cads — men 
who  haven't  the  least  conception  of  what  they're 
receiving.  Or  sensitive,  eager-souled  women  eating 
their  hearts  out  because  some  smug-faced  dolt  of  a 
man  won't  make  love  to  them  and  marry  them! 
It's  a  mystery,  now,  isn't  it,  Constance?"  She 
glanced  sharply  at  the  face  of  the  woman  beside  her. 

Constance  flushed.  "It  is,  it  really  is,"  she  re- 
turned. "I've  thought  about  it  a  good  deal  myself. 
I  don't  pretend  to  be  able  to  diagnose  it.  I  suppose 
it's  a  part  of  the  mesmerism  that  women  are  under, 
the  hypnotism  of  sex  which  has  been  developed  and 
fostered  by  their  dependence  on  men.  It  seems  to 
be  a  part  of  the  game  to  abandon  all  common  sense, 
and  give  oneself  up  to  sentimentalism  and,  as  you 
say,  self-deception." 

"It's  an  attempt  to  cover  up  something  ugly  with 
something  that  looks  prettier,  I  suppose,"  assented 
Sally.  "Somehow,  one  expects  more  of  intelligent 
modern  women.  Connie,  I  do  hope  that  you — "  She 
frowned,  lacking  courage  to  go  on. 

"Oh,  don't  worry  about  me,"  said  Constance. 

3 

Although  Constance  had  asked  her  mother  not  to 
speak  of  what  had  been  said  about  giving  up  the 
allowance  from  Frank,  she  suspected  that  Rose  at 
least  had  heard  of  it.  She  fervently  hoped  that  Wil- 
bur would  not  be  informed  until  she  had  fully  made 
up  her  mind. 


180  SUPPORT 

One  Saturday  afternoon,  the  hall  door  opened  and 
shut,  and  Wilbur  stood  in  the  sitting-room.  He 
shook  hands  with  his  father,  and  greeted  him  with 
amiable  gravity.  Mr.  Fenton  was  fond  of  Wilbur, 
and  was  always  glad  to  see  him.  "I  can't  stay  long," 
said  the  caller.  "I  just  ran  down  between  trains. 
Eleanor's  expecting  me  back.  There's  a  party  of 
some  kind  this  afternoon,  but  I'd  like  to  be  at  home 
this  evening."  He  chatted  on  about  family  affairs, 
and  went  out  into  the  kitchen,  seeking  his  mother. 
He  looked  glum  and  threatening,  Constance  thought. 
She  had  some  household  tasks  to  occupy  her,  and  did 
not  stay  in  the  sitting-room  to  hear  all  that  was 
being  said. 

She  was  coming  downstairs  when  Wilbur  called  to 
her,  "Oh,  Con,  mother  says  I  can  have  that  strip  of 
Indian  bead-work  that  we  used  to  have  around  the 
house.  I'm  getting  up  an  Indian  exhibit  for  one  of 
my  classes.  Do  you  know  where  that  piece  is?" 

Constance  tried  to  think.  "I've  seen  it  since  I 
came  home,"  she  said.  "I  think  it's  in  the  drawer  of 
the  wardrobe  in  the  upper  hall.  I'll  go  and  see." 

She  turned  back,  and  Wilbur  followed  her  up  the 
stairs.  He  waited  till  she  stood  beside  the  wardrobe, 
ready  to  open  the  drawer.  "See  here,  Con,"  he  said, 
staying  her  hand. 

Constance  knew  that  he  had  followed  her  upstairs 
to  say  something.  His  face  was  like  a  thundercloud. 
"Well,  what  is  it?"  she  asked  uneasily. 

"What's  this  I  hear  about  your  giving  up  your  ali- 
mony?" 


SUPPORT  181 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  parried,  backing  away, 
against  the  wardrobe. 

"You  know.  Something  you  said  to  mother  about 
giving  it  up.  Are  you  crazy,  or  what's  the  matter?" 
Wilbur  fixed  her  with  an  inquisitorial  eye. 

"I  don't  see  that  we  need  to  discuss  it,"  his  sister 
replied  with  dignity. 

"There's  reason  enough.  I'm  your  brother." 
Wilbur  was  equally  dignified.  "I  have  a  right  to  see 
that  you  don't  act  the  fool — especially  about  money 
matters.  Women  have  no  sense  in  such  things.  But 
mother  must  have  been  mistaken.  You  can't  be 
such  an  idiot  as  to — to " 

"To  give  up  a  good  thing  when  I  have  my  clutches 
on  it?"  supplemented  Constance. 

"Something  of  the  sort,  if  you  want  to  put  it  that 
way.  Come  on,  Con,  tell  me  what  it's  all  about. 
I'd  like  to  give  you  some  advice." 

"Don't  get  excited."  Constance  tried  to  carry  off 
the  unpleasant  situation.  "I  just  said  to  mother 
that  I  wondered  sometimes  whether  it  was  right  for 
me  to  take  Frank's  money  when  I  wasn't  using  it  for 
myself,  you  know — as  it  was  intended." 

Wilbur's  face  darkened.  "You  can  do  as  you  darn 
please  with  it,  can't  you?"  he  said  roughly.  "Isn't 
that  what  it's  for?" 

"Perhaps  it  is.    That's  why  I  thought " 

"If  your  family  need  it,  that's  all  the  more  reason 
why  you  should  get  it ;  if  they  need  it  to  make  them 
comfortable  in  their  old  age." 


182  SUPPORT 

"Theoretically,  at  least,  that  isn't  what  Frank 
earns  it  for,"  Constance  answered  firmly. 

"Frank  can  be  damned,"  responded  Wilbur  with 
solemnity.  "Hasn't  he  ruined  your  life?  Hasn't 
he— " 

Constance  smiled  wearily.  "Nobody  will  let  me 
say  that  he  hasn't;  so  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  say  that 
he  has." 

Wilbur  regarded  his  sister  with  suspicion.  "I 
don't  know  what  sort  of  mysterious  talk  that  is." 
His  voice  was  cold.  "I  should  think  a  woman  in 
your  position  would  have  pride  enough  not  to  go 
around  talking  flippantly  about  herself." 

"I  never  was  less  flippant,"  retorted  Constance. 
"You  don't  understand." 

"If  you're  going  to  take  the  pose  of  not  being  un- 
derstood— all  right."  Constance  bent  to  rummage  in 
the  drawer  while  Wilbur  was  speaking.  "I  can't 
believe  you'll  do  anything  silly."  His  tone  implied 
that  he  thought  her  capable  of  infinite  silliness. 

"Don't  distress  yourself  about  me."  Constance 
kept  her  face  hidden. 

"I  do  distress  myself  about  you,"  the  man  rejoined. 
"I  used  to  think  you  had  some  sense " 

"But  now  you're  sure  I  haven't?"  Constance  held 
out  the  strip  of  bead-work  at  arm's  length. 

"Thanks."  Wilbur  took  the  offering  mechani- 
cally. "Con,  promise  me " 

"I  promise  nothing."  She  smiled  bafflingly. 
"What  would  a  promise  amount  to,  from  a  person 
with  no  sense?" 


SUPPORT  183 

"Oh,  well,"  he  sulked,  "I'd  like  to  save  you  from 
your  own  foolishness." 

"You  can't  do  that,  Wilbur,"  she  answered  lightly. 
"A  fool  must  follow  his  natural  bent." 

"Eh?"    Wilbur  knitted  his  brows. 

"Even  as  you  and  I."  She  shut  the  drawer  with 
her  knees,  and  turned  quickly  toward  the  head  of 
the  stairs. 

"But,  say,  Con!"  He  reached  out  a  hand  to  de- 
tain her. 

She  eluded  him.    "Are  you  staying  for  dinner?" 

"No."  His  face  was  heavy.  "I  told  Eleanor  I'd 
go  back  on  the  four-thirty-two."  He  pulled  out  his 
watch. 

"You'll  have  to  hurry,  then.  It  was  nice  of  you  to 
give  us  even  this  short  visit."  She  ran  down  the 
stairs  ahead  of  him. 

Wilbur  reluctantly  got  into  his  overcoat,  stuffing 
the  bead-work  into  the  pocket.  When  he  had  gone, 
Constance  drew  her  mother  into  the  parlor. 
"Mother,"  she  began  accusingly,  "did  you  write  to 
Wilbur  about  what  I  said  regarding  Frank's  allow- 
ance?" 

"I — I  might  have  written  him  something,"  her 
mother  replied  guiltily. 

"You  shouldn't  have  done  that.  I  asked  you 
not  to." 

Mrs.  Fenton  clasped  her  hands  nervously.  "I 
didn't  want  you  to  do  anything  rash,"  she  cried. 

"Setting  Wilbur  on  me  is  the  sure  way  to  force  me 
to  do  something  rash,"  her  daughter  muttered. 


184  SUPPORT 

"A  girl  should  look  up  to  her  brother."  Mrs.  Fen- 
ton  spoke  with  conviction. 

"Not  when  he's  Wilbur!"  Constance  turned 
away,  her  eyes  blinking,  her  lips  tightened.  What 
was  the  use?  "Never  mind,  mother,"  she  said.  "It 
can't  be  helped  now." 

"I'm  sorry,"  the  older  woman  made  her  appeal  for 
forgiveness. 

"It's  all  right."  Constance  went  up  to  her  own 
room,  a  weight  of  depression  hanging  upon  her.  She 
sat  down  in  a  low  chair  at  the  window.  Her  courage 
seemed  to  have  gone  forever.  What  was  there  about 
Wilbur  that  made  you  feel  like  that?  It  was  a  sort 
of  mental  bullying — a  forcing  upon  you  of  his  beliefs 
and  antagonisms  and  self-righteousness,  until  you 
were  willing  to  admit  that  you  were  beneath  con- 
tempt. "I  am  a  worm  and  no  man,"  wails  the 
Psalmist.  Constance  smiled  as  her  tears  started. 
"I  am  a  worm  and  no  woman,"  she  murmured.  Her 
head  drooped.  Sobs  shook  her.  Twisting  in  her 
chair,  and  supporting  her  forehead  on  her  arms,  she 
gave  herself  up  to  weeping,  succumbed  to  the 
miseries  which  seemed  to  rise  up  and  overwhelm 
her.  What  was  the  use  of  fighting  them?  She  cried 
with  long  shuddering  breaths,  luxuriously,  with  aban- 
don, as  she  had  not  permitted  herself  to  cry  for 
months.  She  heard  Rose  come  in  at  the  front  door, 
and  hoped  that  the  younger  sister,  for  whom  she 
ought  to  be  an  example,  would  not  find  her  weakly 
yielding  herself  to  tears. 

She  tried  to  stifle  her  weeping  when  she  heard 


SUPPORT  185 

Rose  at  the  door  of  her  room.  Her  inarticulate  cry 
Rose  took  for  an  invitation  to  enter.  She  stood  still, 
saying  nothing,  while  Constance  wiped  her  eyes  and 
struggled  to  regain  her  self-control.  Constance  was 
glad  of  the  dusk  which  partially  concealed  the 
ravages  of  her  lamentations. 

"I  knew  all  the  time  that  you  felt  worse  than  you 
let  anyone  know,"  said  Rose  at  last.  "Has  Frank 
been  bothering  you?" 

"No,  oh,  no!"  Constance's  voice  was  thick.  "It's 
just  that  I'm  so  tired.  Wilbur's  been  here — and — 
and " 

"I  should  think  you  would  be,"  said  Rose.  "It's 
a  rotten  shame  that  you  couldn't  have  got  on  better 
with  Frank,  and  that  you  had  to  come  back  here." 

"I  didn't  have  to,"  Constance  defended  herself, 
gulping. 

Rose  stood  looking  down  at  her  with  an  .attitude 
of  curiosity  and  pity.  "I  don't  see  what  made  you 
do  it,  Connie,"  she  said. 

Constance  was  mastering  her  emotions.  "People 
do  a  great  many  things  that  they  can't  account  for," 
she  said.  "I  suppose  it  was  the  'homing  instinct/ 
I  wanted  my  own  people." 

"And  now  that  you  have  them,  they  don't  satisfy." 
Rose  was  not  questioning,  but  making  a  statement. 
Rose  saw  through  people — all  except  herself. 

"It's  my  own  fault.  I  expected  too  much.  I'm  be- 
ginning to  see,"  Constance  went  on  slowly,  "that 
mere  physical  relationships  (blood-relationships, 
we  call  them)  aren't  very  real.  They  don't  have 


186  SUPPORT 

much  actual  substance  to  them.  You  won't  misun- 
derstand me?"  she  begged. 

"No.  I  think  I  see  it  myself."  Rose  seemed 
striving  to  make  the  idea  abstract  and  not  personal. 

"They're  not  founded  on  any  unity  of  purpose,  or 
on  any  real  congeniality  of  temperament  or  philoso- 
phy," Constance  explained,  rather  lamely. 

"No,  not  at  all,"  Rose  admitted. 

"That's  why  they're  so  disappointing,"  the  elder 
sister  went  on.  "You  look  to  them  for  consolation 
and  happiness,  and  you  don't  get  them." 

"Well,  cheer  up,  Con,"  Rose  responded.  "I  be- 
lieve our  family  is  about  the  worst  that  you  could 
have  come  back  to." 

"No,  it  isn't,  Rose."  Constance  turned  to  regard 
her  sister  the  more  earnestly  in  the  darkening  room. 
"I'm  convinced  of  that.  It's  just  the  same  as  a  mil- 
lion others — its  value  and  dignity  spoiled  by  petty 
friction  and  too  easy  condemnation.  I  have  sense 
enough  to  see  that  we're  merely  human — that  my 
family  hasn't  been  got  together  for  the  express  pur- 
pose of  making  things  hard  for  me" 

"That's  generous  of  you."  It  was  sometimes  diffi- 
cult to  tell  whether  Rose  were  ironical  or  not. 

"It's  hard  to  be  generous,"  the  other  rejoined. 
"I  can  see  why  the  family  don't  all  find  it  easy  to  be 
charitable  with  me." 

"It  seems  strange,"  Rose  meditated,  poking  at  the 
rug  with  the  toe  of  her  shoe — "everybody  always 
acts  toward  everybody  else  as  if  they,  themselves,  I 
mean,  had  never  done  or  said  anything  wrong  or 


SUPPORT  187 

foolish.  They  never  stop  to  think  that,  in  other  peo- 
ple's eyes,  they've  done  things  just  as  bad." 

"That's  true."  Constance  felt  humble.  She  was 
not  altogether  discriminating  in  her  condemnation, 
perhaps.  "What  a  muddle  life  is!"  She  got  up, 
wearily.  "I'd  better  go  and  help  mother  get  dinner. 
She'll  be  tired— after  Wilbur's  visit." 

"Yes.  Wilbur  makes  me  tired,"  Rose  assented 
with  a  satirical  chuckle.  "There  we  go  again, 
don't  we?" 

"We  ought  to  be  generous — or  just,  at  least — to 
Wilbur."  Constance  repented  her  hateful  thoughts 
of  him. 

"Even  that  wouldn't  make  us  like  him  any  bet- 
ter. I'm  glad  I  wasn't  in  when  he  came,"  said  Rose. 
Constance  caught  her  grinning  as  she  came  near  her. 

Constance,  bathing  her  red  eyes  in  the  bathroom, 
thought  with  bewilderment  and  tenderness  of  Rose. 
She  was  a  curious  girl.  She  had  a  lot  in  her,  if  one 
could  only  bring  it  out.  "I  wish  she  would  be  her- 
self more,"  the  older  sister  sighed.  "Well,  I  can't 
worry  about  it  now."  She  went  downstairs  to  help 
her  mother  with  the  dinner. 


Christmas  was  now  approaching;  but  the  Fentons 
had  agreed  that  they  would  not  try  to  celebrate  it 
elaborately.  The  distinguishing  feature  of  the  sea- 
son was  Eleanor's  refusal  to  come  to  Blanchard  for 
the  holidays.  She  couldn't  go,  she  said,  where  there 


188  SUPPORT 

was  anyone  who  didn't  believe  in  God,  especially 
at  such  a  sacred  time  as  Christmas.  This  piece  of 
information  was  communicated  darkly  to  Mrs.  Fen- 
ton  by  an  indignantly  sympathetic  Wilbur.  Mrs. 
Fenton  whispered  it  to  Rose,  who  called  it  out  to 
Constance  up  the  back  stairs  on  Sunday  morning. 
Rose  was  frankly  grateful  to  Constance  for  keeping 
Eleanor  away.  Constance  laugluJcl  hysterically,  her 
mixed  mirth  reverberating  down  the  back  stairs  in 
unison  with  the  jubilant  note  which  floated  up. 
"I'm  only  afraid,"  added  Rose,  "that  she'll  repent 
her  decision,  and  make  up  her  mind  to  come  down 
and  convert  you." 

Mrs.  Fenton's  worry  was  ameliorated  by  the  news, 
arriving  later,  that  Eleanor  was  too  ill  to  come,  any- 
how. A  delicate  digestion,  a  tendency  to  colds,  and 
a  goading  ambition  to  provide  mosquito-netting 
bags  filled  with  candy  for  all  the  children  in  her 
Sunday  school,  had  combined  to  put  Eleanor  under 
the  care  of  her  physician. 

"Of  course,  I'm  sorry  Eleanor's  sick,"  commented 
Mrs.  Fenton,  attempting  to  hide  her  relief;  "but  it 
is  so  much  better  to  be  able  to  explain  that  that's 
the  reason  why  she  and  Wilbur  aren't  coming  home 
for  Christmas." 

"It  seems  like  another  dispensation  of  Providence, 
doesn't  it,  mother?"  said  Constance  dryly. 

"Almost.  Of  course  we  don't  know  why  people 
are  called  upon  to  suffer,"  said  Mrs.  Fenton  with  an 
accent  of  piety.  "It  must  be  for  their  good." 

"And  the  good  of  their  families,"  put  in  Constance 


SUPPORT  189 

with  a  wicked  grin.  "Here  is  a  case  where  it  cer- 
tainly does  seem  so,  mother.  For  once  your  theory 
of  providential  affliction  is  borne  out."  Mrs.  Fenton 
had  no  answer,  beyond  a  commiserating  sigh  for  the 
visitations  of  an  inscrutable  Power  upon  an  inno- 
cent Eleanor. 

Constance  had  finished  the  serviettes  for  Mrs. 
Rathvon,  and  M^  with  bantering  protests  taken 
the  money  for  them.  "I  feel  terribly  silly,  taking 
money  from  you,  Sally,"  she  said.  "I  don't  know 
what  to  do  about  it." 

"The  silliness  is  in  your  feeling  like  that,"  Mrs. 
Rathvon  responded  in  her  most  practical  tone. 
"You  could  sell  a  lot  of  those  things,  if  you  weren't 
too  proud." 

"I  don't  know  that  I'm  too  proud,"  answered  the 
other,  thoughtfully.  "I  don't  see  why  anyone 
shouldn't  sell  the  work  of  his  hands,  when  he  has 
put  his  best  effort  into  it.  All  craftsmen  have 
done  so." 

"That's  true,"  said  Sally,  "and  I  hope  you'll  re- 
member it." 

"I  shall,"  Constance  rejoined.  "It  isn't  that  one 
hesitates  to  sell  her  work,  so  much  as  it  is  that  she 
doesn't  like  to  appear  to  need  the  money.  I  don't 
know  why  £  woman  should  feel  so,  but  it's  the  effect 
of  being  supported,  I  suppose.  If  I  had  always 
earned  my  own  living,  I  should  think  it  was  per- 
fectly natural  to  sell  my  handiwork  for  money." 

"The  married  woman  who  is  an  artist  in  oils  or 
water-colors,  or  is  a  writer  or  a  singer,  gets  money 


190  SUPPORT 

for  her  skill,"  said  Mrs.  Rathvon.    "Why  shouldn't 
one  who  is  an  artist  in  needlework?" 

"She  should,"  laughed  Constance.  "I  shall  begin 
vending  my  wares  on  the  street  corners,  before 
long." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  was  inordinately  proud 
of  this  money,  which  she  had  earned  herself,  which 
had  not  been  bestowed  upon  her  by  either  a  willing 
or  an  unwilling  hand.  She  put  the  bills  away  in  a 
drawer,  and  took  them  out  to  handle  them  over. 
They  represented  more  than  money.  They  were 
self-activity,  individuality,  the  pleasure  of  pleasing 
someone  else  by  one's  own  endeavors.  In  the  end, 
she  spent  the  money  for  Christmas  gifts  for 
Suzanne:  yarn  for  a  blue  jersey;  a  white  fur  tippet, 
and  white  "kitty"  mittens ;  a  doll  with  round  cheeks 
and  real  hair;  oranges;  and  cinnamon  candy — the 
kind  that  snaps  and  crunches.  She  went  over  to 
Mrs.  Greening's,  on  Christmas  Eve,  and  cuddled 
Suzanne,  and  helped  her  to  hang  up  one  of  the 
clumsy  black  woolen  stockings  behind  the  sheet-iron 
stove.  She  was  sorry  that  she  could  not  be  there  in 
the  morning,  when  the  stocking  was  taken  down; 
but  she  made  Mrs.  Greening  tell  her  what  Suzanne 
had  said  and  done.  "Next  Christmas,  perhaps,"  she 
said  to  herself,  without  precisely  formulating  what 
she  meant. 

Just  after  Christmas,  her  second  decree  came.  She 
had  been  expecting  it,  and  dreading  it,  too,  because 
in  spite  of  her  desire  to  have  it,  it  seemed  to  typify  a 
crisis,  the  end  and  shattering  of  her  girlish  hopes,  a 


SUPPORT  191 

something  big  and  significant  in  her  life,  of  looming 
proportions  difficult  to  estimate.  It  meant  the  final 
severing  of  a  relationship  which  had  been  hanging 
by  a  thread.  As  long  as  this  actual  breaking  of 
bonds  had  not  taken  place,  she  was  still  half-mar- 
ried, not  her  complete  unhampered  self,  to  choose,  to 
act,  to  be. 

It  was  the  day  for  Suzanne  to  stay  at  the  Fen- 
tons',  while  Mrs.  Greening  was  doing  the  washing. 
The  little  girl  had  had  her  nap,  and  Constance  was 
dressing  her.  Rose  came  in  with  a  long  envelope, 
and  said,  "Mail  for  you,  Connie."  There  was  a  for- 
warded circular,  too,  advertising  a  rug-cleaning  es- 
tablishment. Constance,  with  the  child  on  her  lap, 
took  the  letters,  glanced  at  them  without  interest, 
and  laid  them  down.  Then  she  took  up  the  long 
envelope  again,  looked  at  it  more  closely,  and  tore  it 
open.  It  contained  a  letter  from  her  lawyer,  and  the 
second  decree.  She  sat  staring  at  it,  her  heart  beat- 
ing thickly.  So  here  was  the  end — the  definite,  abso- 
lute end  of  her  dream  of  love  and  happiness.  She 
would  have  allowed  herself  a  season  of  sentimental 
yearnings  and  regrets,  but  that  the  child  broke  in, 
saying  plaintively,  "Mummy-Constance,  I  can't 
reach  my  buttons,  you  know."  She  threw  down  the 
papers,  and  went  on  dressing  the  little  girl.  After  the 
buttoning  and  hair-brushing  had  been  accomplished, 
there  was  the  glass  of  milk  to  be  brought  and  dis- 
posed of,  and  then  a  wonderful  new  doll-jacket  to  be 
displayed  and  put  on  the  Christmas  doll.  By  the 
time  that  Suzanne  was  settled  down  with  some  pic- 


192  SUPPORT 

tures  and  a  packet  of  colored  crayons,  Constance  had 
forgotten  the  document  which  she  had  received,  and 
went  to  make  the  pudding  for  dinner,  with  her  mind 
absorbed  in  some  trifling  plan  for  Suzanne's  amuse- 
ment. As  she  stirred  the  beaten  egg-whites  into  the 
hot  custard,  she  thought,  "What  was  it  that  made 
me  feel  depressed,  a  while  ago?"  The  remembrance 
of  the  official  paper  came  sharply,  but  she  parried  it 
with  the  thought,  "Nothing  has  really  changed. 
This  is  only  a  formality."  She  did  not  permit  her- 
self to  lapse  into  misery.  "I  ought  to  be  thankful 
that  it  has  come,  and  that  I'm  myself  again,"  she 
said,  and  went  on  making  the  pudding. 


"Do  you  remember  how  we  always  went  to  some- 
body's house  for  Sunday  night  supper?"  said  Alison 
Sharland,  as  he  was  taking  leave  of  Constance  at  the 
door. 

"Yes.  That  was  one  of  our  happiest  customs," 
she  answered.  "We  always  seemed  to  be  a  little 
more  subdued  and  sensible  at  that  time.  We  used  to 
have  some  really  intelligent  discussions." 

"I  believe  we  did — about  marriage  and  religion 
and  politics,  even;  but  our  most  savage  wranglings 
usually  ended  in  harmony  over  the  good  things  to 
eat." 

"Won't  you  come  over  for  Sunday  night  supper, 
sometime?"  asked  Constance. 


SUPPORT  193 

"I'd  like  to,  immensely."  Sharland's  clean-shaven 
face  had  a  boyish  look  in  the  dim  light. 

"Shall  we  say  next  Sunday?" 

"Yes,  that  would  be  fine.  I  haven't  any  engage- 
ment." 

"I'll  expect  you,  then,  about  half-past  six." 

"I'll  be  here,"  said  Sharland.  "Would  it  be  too 
much  trouble  to  have  waffles?  I  remember  how  good 
your  mother's  used  to  be." 

"We'll  manage.    It's  no  trouble." 

Constance  said  good-night  with  new  exhilaration. 
One  of  the  charms  of  the  past  was  to  be  renewed. 
There  was  an  intimacy  about  the  Sunday  night  sup- 
per with  her  family  that  boded  well  for  her  friend- 
ship with  Alison.  She  told  her  mother,  who  in  turn 
communicated  the  information  to  Rose. 

On  Sunday  morning,  Constance  said  in  a  business- 
like way,  "We  must  plan  about  supper.  I  think  I'll 
polish  some  of  the  silver,  instead  of  going  to  church. 
Let's  see — there'll  be  five  of  us,  I  think." 

"Six,"  said  Rose,  putting  the  salt-shakers  on  the 
sideboard. 

"Oh,  no;  five."  Constance  counted :  "Mother  and 
father  and  you  and  Alison  and  myself." 

"And  Herman,"  said  Rose. 

"Herman  Who?"  For  a  moment  it  seemed  to 
Constance  that  she  had  simply  never  heard  of  any 
Herman. 

"Schelling,"  Rose  replied. 

"Why — what — he  isn't  going  to  be  here,"  asserted 
Constance  blankly. 


194  SUPPORT 

"I  asked  him,  and  he  said  he'd  come,"  Rose  re- 
torted with  an  assumption  of  coolness. 

"Good  heavens!"  Constance  stood  aghast,  furi- 
ously angry,  rage  rushing  hotly  through  her  veins. 
The  calm  insolence  of  Rose  moved  her  to  baffled 
and  surging  wrath. 

"I  don't  see  what's  so  shocking  about  that."  Rose 
met  her  sister's  eyes  with  a  level  stare. 

"Why,  Rose,  I  think  that's  hateful  of  you,"  Con- 
stance burst  out,  her  voice  trembling.  "To  do  a 
thing  like  that  without — without " 

"Without  consulting  you.  Now,  why  haven't  I  a 
right  to  invite  someone  here  if  I  want  to?"  queried 
the  girl. 

"I  suppose  you  have,"  admitted  Constance.  "But, 
Rose " 

"Well,  what?  Haven't  I  just  as  good  a  right  to 
invite  Herman  Schelling  as  you  have  to  ask  Alison 
Sharland?" 

"Perhaps."  Constance's  voice  stuck  in  her  throat. 
"I  don't  know  just  what  the  right  consists  of. 
But " 

Rose  made  no  answer.  Constance  turned  away 
and  went  into  the  kitchen,  where  her  mother  was 
putting  away  the  food  left  from  breakfast.  "Mother, 
what  do  you  think?"  Constance  began. 

At  her  daughter's  tone,  Mrs.  Fenton  turned  an 
apprehensive  glance  toward  the  speaker.  "What  is 
it?"  she  asked  timidly. 

"Rose  has  invited  that  man  Schelling  here  for 


SUPPORT  195 

supper  to-night,"  said  Constance  with  grim  distinct- 
ness. 

"To-night?  Why,  I  thought  you'd  invited  Allie 
Sharland,"  Mrs.  Fenton  returned  in  bewilderment. 

"I  did,  mother.  And  she's  invited  Schelling,  and 
they'll  both  be  here." 

"Oh,  no !"  The  look  on  Mrs.  Fenton's  face  showed 
how  serious  the  contretemps  appeared  to  her. 

"Yes.  It's  so  hateful  of  Rose.  She  just  did  it 
purposely  to  hurt  our  feelings,  and  to — to  set  Alison 
against  us."  Constance  could  not  keep  her  lips 
from  quivering. 

"Perhaps  it  was  just  thoughtless,"  Mrs.  Fenton 
began  feebly. 

"You  know  it  was  deliberate,  mother.  Can't  you 
do  something?" 

"What  can  I  do,  Connie?"  Mrs.  Fenton  answered 
in  distress.  "You  know  how  Rose  is.  Nobody  has 
ever  been  able  to  do  anything  with  her." 

"Well,  mother,"  Constance  replied,  more  harshly 
than  she  intended,  "when  a  girl  grows  up  to  be  like 
that — so  selfish  and  inconsiderate  and  headstrong — 
I  think  it  must  be  her  parents'  fault.  It  must  be 
her  bringing  up.  It  can't  be  just  accident  or 
nature." 

"Why,  Connie  Fenton,  how  can  you  be  so  un- 
kind?" Mrs.  Fenton  set  down  the  dish  of  prunes 
which  she  was  holding,  and  fumbled  for  her  hand- 
kerchief. "You  know  we've  tried  and  tried  with 

Rose — to  make  her — to — to "  She  prepared  to 

dissolve  into  tears. 


196  SUPPORT 

Constance  was  ready  to  condemn  herself  for 
worrying  her  mother.  "Never  mind,"  she  said. 
"We'll  have  to  make  the  best  of  it.  Perhaps  one  of 
them  will  be  sick  or  break  a  leg,  or  something,"  she 
added  with  hopeless  humor.  Inwardly  she  was  ask- 
ing herself,  "Shall  I  telephone  Alison  not  to  come?" 
The  answer  was,  "No,  I  can't  do  that.  It  would  be 
too  rude.  Besides,  I  hate  to  be  defeated  by  Rose. 
That's  probably  what  she  wants.  We'll  simply  have 
to  do  the  best  we  can,  and  let  it  go  at  that." 

Nothing  more  was  said  during  the  day,  but  an  air 
of  covered  hostility  prevailed  when  the  two  sisters 
were  in  a  room  together.  The  preparations  for  the 
supper  devolved  as  usual  upon  Mrs.  Fenton  and 
Constance.  Rose  was  of  small  assistance  in  domestic 
and  culinary  affairs.  Constance  had  recovered  from 
her  first  flaming  of  wrath,  but  she  could  not  stifle 
her  resentment  at  the  insolence  with  which  Rose  had 
treated  her;  nor  could  she  restrain  her  fear  of  the 
consequences.  Her  friendship  with  Alison  Sharland 
was  in  a  delicate  state  of  flux,  she  knew,  where  a  sin- 
gle incident,  however  small,  might  send  it  in  one 
direction  or  the  other.  Forcing  upon  him  the  per- 
sonality of  this  crude  German,  contingently  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Fenton  family,  would  be  a  dangerous  ex- 
periment. Alison  was  proud  and  sensitive.  The 
opinion  of  the  world  counted  largely  with  him ;  and 
his  own  standards  of  fitness  counted,  too.  He  placed 
a  high  value  on  the  taste  and  station  of  the 
Sharlands. 

The  courage  of  Constance  rose  to  the  occasion. 


SUPPORT  197 

She  arranged  the  drawing-room  so  that  it  looked  less 
than  usually  ugly,  with  candles  and  shaded  lights 
and  flowers.  The  square  of  Chinese  embroidery 
thrown  across  the  piano  was  possible  in  the  dimness 
which  softened  the  wall  paper.  The  fire  on  the 
hearth  drew  attention  from  the  mantel,  whence  she 
had  removed  the  knickknacks,  leaving  only  the  old 
gold-framed  mirror,  and  a  pair  of  candle-lamps  with 
dangling  crystal  fringe.  In  the  dining-room,  she 
set  out  the  best  linen  and  silver,  with  more  candles 
and  flowers. 

The  happiness  was  gone  from  the  festivity.  It 
was  now  merely  something  to  be  endured.  "Per- 
haps it  won't  be  so  dreadful,"  she  murmured.  "Per- 
haps we  can  carry  it  off.  I  hope  father  won't  be  too 
difficult."  Mrs.  Fenton  had  told  her  husband  as 
cautiously  as  she  could  that  "Rose's  man"  was  going 
to  be  there.  Constance  had  not  known  how  he  had 
accepted  the  news,  but  she  could  imagine. 

Alison  was  the  first  to  come.  He  used  the  three 
light  rings  which  had  been  a  clan  signal  in  times 
gone  by.  Constance  went  to  the  door  to  let  him  in. 
As  he  took  off  his  overcoat,  he  gazed  at  her  warmly, 
searchingly.  "You  look — just  as  you  did — then,"  he 
said  in  a  low  voice.  She  knew  that  he  meant  to  tell 
her  that  she  was  still  young,  still  alluring;  that  the 
affection  of  an  earlier  day  was  being  restored.  She 
smiled  back  at  him.  Even  in  her  worry  she  could 
thrill  to  the  hints  which  his  manner  implied.  The 
sense  of  comfort,  of  being  at  home,  with  which  he 
walked  into  the  drawing-room  and  sat  down  gave 


198  SUPPORT 

her  both  assurance  and  alarm.  His  geniality  was 
unusual.  She  was  nervous,  dreading  a  change  in  his 
manner.  She  pulled  at  her  handkerchief,  talking  of 
the  snow,  his  mother's  health,  waffles,  maple  syrup, 
real  and  "near." 

The  door-bell  rang  again,  with  loud  insistent 
whir,  as  of  a  heavy  finger  held  hard  upon  it.  Shar- 
land  looked  at  Constance  inquiringly.  "There's  to 
be  another  guest,"  she  said.  Sharland  made  no 
reply,  but  fixed  his  eyes  curiously  upon  the  door. 
There  were  voices  in  the  hall.  Constance  talked  on, 
with  meaningless  iteration.  Rose  came  into  the 
room,  and  Schelling  followed. 

Sharland  got  up  with  his  impeccable  politeness, 
and  shook  hands  with  Rose ;  then  stood  stiffly,  staring 
at  the  other  man.  Constance,  watching  him  while 
she  performed  the  introduction,  saw  him  grow  stark, 
and  freeze.  Schelling  was  taken  aback  by  the  pres- 
ence of  Sharland,  clearly  unexpected.  It  was  as  if  a 
cold  wind  had  passed  over  the  four.  They  sat  or 
stood  in  constrained  attitudes.  Nobody  could  think 
of  anything  to  say.  Mrs.  Fenton  came  in,  handsome 
and  harassed,  with  a  graciousness  which  long  years 
of  fretting  had  not  erased.  There  was  a  slight  re- 
laxation in  the  group,  and  they  began  talking  of 
trivial  things;  but  all  were  conscious  of  the  awk- 
wardness of  Schelling,  the  contemptuous  proud 
silences  of  Sharland. 

It  was  harrowing,  Constance  conceded.  But 
worse  was  to  come  when  they  went  into  the  dining- 
room.  Mr.  Fenton  joined  them  in  the  hall,  shaking 


SUPPORT  199 

hands  cordially  with  Sharland,  and  contriving  not  to 
see  Schelling  at  all.  The  old  man  obstinately  looked 
away  from  the  German  and  ignored  him.  "Well, 
Alison,"  he  remarked  with  conspicuous  heartiness, 
"you're  getting  more  like  your  father.  A  fine  man, 
a  fine  man ;  reliable ;  good  as  gold.  Good  old  Ameri- 
can stock,  he  came  from.  That's  what  we  want  in 
this  country:  good  old  American  stock."  He  took 
up  his  fork  and  attacked  his  plate  of  food.  Con- 
stance could  see  that  his  hand  was  trembling,  and 
knew  that  for  once  he  was  oblivious  of  what  he  ate. 

Rose,  her  high  color  accented  by  rouge,  was  chat- 
ting vivaciously  with  Schelling,  laughing  more  than 
was  necessary.  Schelling  crumbled  his  bread,  clear- 
ing his  throat,  and  saying,  "Yes,  yes ;  that's  it,  that's 
it,"  helplessly,  at  each  of  her  sallies.  Mrs.  Fenton, 
behind  the  silver  teapot,  lapsed  into  a  crushed 
silence,  studying  the  faces  of  the  five  others. 

A  sudden  hard  hush  fell  upon  them — a  spiritual 
blankness,  which  suggested  nothing  to  be  said. 
It  was  as  if  they  saw  one  another  with  relent- 
less clarity  of  vision,  and  read  one  another's 
thoughts:  Constance,  wounded,  apprehensive; 
Sharland  haughty  and  resentful;  Mrs.  Fenton  be- 
wildered, weakly  protesting;  the  old  man  bitterly 
angry;  Schelling  awkward  but  self-satisfied  and  de- 
termined; Rose  hysterical,  defiant,  recklessly  enjoy- 
ing the  misery  which  she  had  created. 

The  talk  began  again.  Constance  felt  about  des- 
perately for  subjects:  the  college  play,  a  popular 
novel,  the  decline  in  prices,  the  new  sewer  project. 


200  SUPPORT 

Mr.Fenton  addressed  Sharland,  in  oratorical  phrases. 
Mrs.  Fenton  put  in  a  vague  remark  now  and  then, 
under  the  impression  that  she  was  helping.  Rose 
chattered  and  said  nothing.  Schelling  launched  into 
a  story  of  an  automobile  speeder  and  a  policeman. 
His  grammar  weakened  and  collapsed.  The  taint  of 
the  common  in  him  seemed  to  smirch  his  most  harm- 
less attempts  at  social  discourse.  Sharland  looked 
at  his  plate.  Constance  smiled  at  the  story,  trying 
to  find  a  few  words  to  emphasize  the  point  of  it, 
where  it  was  inaptly  expressed. 

When  the  waffles  came  on,  there  was  a  spasm  of 
heavy  gaiety,  but  it  died  out,  and  the  six  people  sat 
eating  in  pleasureless  constraint.  "It  might  as 
well .  be  sawdust  and  syrup,"  thought  Constance 
sardonically. 

Back  in  the  drawing-room,  matters  were  unim- 
proved. Constance  could  have  shrieked  with  joy 
when  Sharland  looked  at  his  watch  and  said  that  he 
had  to  see  somebody,  a  man  from  out  of  town,  who 
was  going  on  the  eight-forty.  "I  have  to  see  him  on 
business,"  he  explained. 

"We're  so  sorry,"  she  managed  to  say.  "We 
thought  you  could  stay  longer." 

"I'm  sorry,  too." 

She  went  to  the  hall  with  him,  after  his  good 
night  to  the  others.  "Thanks  for  the  waffles.  They 
were  delicious,"  he  said. 

"Come  in  and  have  some  more,  sometime,"  she 
replied.  Her  heart  was  leaden. 

"I  will,"  he  answered,  settling  the  collar  of  his 


SUPPORT  201 

coat.  He  opened  the  door.  "I  believe  it's  snowing 
again.  Well,  good  night.  It  was  good  of  you 
to  ask  me." 

His  fingers  touched  hers.  His  tone  was  formal,  his 
handshake  cool. 

"Good  night."  She  stood  rigid,  her  furious  anger 
at  Rose  surging  up  again  within  her.  The  door 
closed.  She  could  not  go  back  to  the  parlor,  but 
slipped  away  to  the  dining-rom,  forcing  back  her 
tears.  It  would  only  elate  Rose  to  see  her  crying. 
She  began  picking  up  the  dishes  and  taking  them  to 
the  kitchen.  Her  mother  came  out  presently,  and 
tied  on  an  apron  over  her  silk  dress.  "Where's 
father?"  asked  Constance. 

"In  the  study,"  said  Mrs.  Fenton  briefly. 

So  Rose  had  succeeded  in  driving  them  all  out. 
The  two  women  went  on  with  their  work,  saying 
nothing,  their  faces  sober,  drawn  with  the  emotions 
which  they  restrained.  Constance  washed  the 
dishes,  and  Mrs.  Fenton  wiped,  both  conscious  of 
the  murmur  of  talk  and  the  continued  bursts  of 
laughter  in  the  drawing-room.  Constance,  her  care- 
ful hands  busy  with  cups  and  glasses,  felt  that  she 
could  willingly  smash  the  dishes  against  the  wall, 
and  trample  the  pieces  under  her  feet.  Seldom  had 
she  been  so  angry.  "But  of  course  I'll  get  over  it 
and  go  on,  the  same  as  ever,"  she  assured  herself. 
"In  your  own  family  you  struggle  along  with  the  peo- 
ple who  treat  you  badly.  You  can't  eliminate  them, 
as  you  can  outsiders."  She  refused  to  let  her  mind 
dwell  upon  Sharland.  "He  will  have  to  do  as  he 


202  SUPPORT 

thinks  best,"  she  thought  dully.  She  lingered  over 
the  work,  to  make  it  last  as  long  as  possible.  She 
shrank  from  going  upstairs.  But  when  all  was  done, 
and  the  kitchen  reduced  to  shining  order,  the  talk 
and  laughter  in  the  drawing-room  continued. 

As  she  passed  the  drawing-room  door,  she  heard 
the  voice  of  Rose,  suddenly  low,  saying,  "Not  now, 
Herman,"  in  a  tone  of  putting  off  a  too-familiar 
approach;  and  Herman's  (it  was  a  rather  agreeable 
voice)  replying  doggedly,  "Well  you  will  sometime." 

Quivering,  Constance  went  on  upstairs.  It  was 
all  so  incredible,  so  sickening,  that  she  had  no  emo- 
tion left  for  it.  Poor  Rose !  Poor  foolish,  contrary- 
minded,  bewitched  little  girl!  There  was  no  know- 
ing what  she  would  do  now.  The  family  must  be 
prepared  for  the  worst,  thought  Constance  as  she 
climbed  the  stairs.  The  ache  of  her  own  fear  and 
uncertainty  was  overmastered  by  her  terror  as  to 
what  was  to  become  of  Rose. 

6 

As  she  had  predicted,  there  was  no  redress  for  the 
discord  of  the  evening.  Rose  made  pretense  that 
nothing  had  occurred.  The  others  shrank  from 
bringing  on  an  argument,  a  round  of  recrimination. 
Rose  was  out  at  her  classes  and  elsewhere  (Constance 
did  not  inquire),  and  Constance  herself  went  out 
more  to  distract  herself  from  her  forebodings.  She 
recounted  the  episode  of  the  supper  to  Sally  Rath- 
von,  touching  it  as  lightly  as  she  could.  Sally  looked 


SUPPORT  203 

grave.  "It's  the  first  time  she  has  really  forced  him 
on  the  family,  isn't  it?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  Constance  replied.  "Heretofore,  she's 
merely  had  him  in  the  drawing-room,  and  gone  out 
with  him.  This  is  the  most  aggressive  thing  that 
she  has  done.  I  hate  to  think " 

"It  seems  unbelievable,"  answered  Sally.  "But 
girls  do  act  absolutely  insane  sometimes.  It  ap- 
pears to  be  a  form  of  self-mesmerism.  Of  course, 
Rose  has  always  been  difficult." 

"Yes,  terribly,"  Constance  agreed. 

"I  remember  how  hard  she  used  to  make  things 
for  you  and  your  mother,  when  I  used  to  go  there  so 
much.  She  used  to  have  tantrums  and  obstinate 
streaks,  and  be  rude  and  insolent,  just  to  annoy  and 
horrify  someone.  Do  you  remember  that  time  that 
your  Aunt  Claudia  was  there,  and  you  all  wanted 
everything  to  be  so  nice,  and  then  how  Rose  acted?" 

"Oh,  do  I?"  Constance  groaned  at  the  recollec- 
tion. "Some  of  that  was  so  awful  that  it  was  funny. 
But  this  is  serious,  Sally — deadly  serious." 

"It  is.  It's  all  of  that."  Sally  bit  her  lip,  looking 
almost  as  distressed  as  Constance. 

"I  don't  know  why  she  should  be  so  strange  and 
dreadful,"  the  elder  sister  lamented.  "If  it  were  in 
a  novel,  people  would  say  it  was  impossible." 

"It's  getting  less  and  less  impossible,"  Sally  re- 
turned. "Do  you  realize  that  all  over  this  country, 
this  family  tragedy  is  going  on — the  old  American 
family  being  invaded  by  foreigners,  people  of  a  dif- 
ferent class  and  background  and  consciousness,  who 


204  SUPPORT 

pride  themselves  on  breaking  in  where  it  would  seem 
that  they  couldn't  go?  Why,  even  my  own  case  was 
something  like  that.  Grif's  people  were  Welsh  farm- 
ers— chapel-goers;  you  can  see  it  in  him" — Con- 
stance nodded — "and  my  family  didn't  like  it  very 
well  when  I  married  him." 

"Well,  of  course,  he  was  educated,  and  when  you 
come  right  down  to  it,  he  was  of  the  same  British 
stock  as  ourselves."  If  Rose  wanted  to  marry  some- 
one like  Griffith  Rathvon,  Constance  thought,  it 
would  be  unpleasant,  but  not  objectionable.  She 
had  never  expected  to  find  herself  defending  the 
Welsh  professor  who  had,  so  undeservedly,  it 
seemed,  carried  off  her  closest  friend.  "It's  when  the 
race  is  different  and  the  man  himself  is  undesirable 
that  it  hurts.  And  there's  the  question  of  religion, 
too,  though  Rose  isn't  interested  in  religion.  Really, 
Sally,  it's  enough  to  drive  us  all  mad." 

"Nonsense,"  retorted  Sally  briskly.  "Nothing 
may  ever  come  of  it.  I  imagine  that  Rose  has  done 
her  worst  now — has  played  her  naughtiest  prank,  as 
it  were,  and  is  secretly  ashamed  of  herself.  I 
shouldn't  worry  if  I  were  you,  Connie." 

"I'm  sorry  I  bothered  you  with  this,"  Constance 
apologized.  She  was  glad  that  she  had  not  said 
anything  about  Alison  Sharland.  Sally  was  getting 
near  her  time,  and  ought  not  to  be  badgered  with 
other  people's  perplexities. 


CHAPTER  X 


FOR  nearly  two  weeks,  Constance  saw  nothing  of 
Sharland,  and  heard  only  indirectly.  "The  Evening 
News  says  that  Allie  Sharland  is  out  of  town,"  Mrs. 
Fenton  remarked. 

"Our  supper  was  too  much  for  him,"  commented 
Mrs.  Moffatt.  "Where  did  he  take  his  wounded  feel- 
ings to?" 

"To  North  Dakota,  it  says." 

"His  uncle  has  a  bank  up  there  somewhere.  He's 
probably  gone  on  business,"  said  Constance. 

"You  haven't  heard  from  him?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Fenton. 

"No."  Constance  felt  a  shade  of  humiliation  in 
confessing  that  Alison  had  not  written  to  her.  He 
might  have  sent  a  note  or  a  card  or  something.  But 
he  was  busy.  He  would  call  when  he  came  back. 
Alison  was  too  punctilious,  even  in  these  inelegant 
days,  not  to  pay  a  call  where  he  had  been  invited. 
Constance  had  a  cold  sense  of  loss  and  deprivation 
in  his  absence.  She  had  not  realized  how  much  her 
quiet  evenings  with  him  had  meant.  She  suffered 
for  the  lack  of  companionship,  especially  since  a  dis- 
tance now  seemed  to  intervene  between  her  and 
Rose.  Constance  took  occasion  to  go  to  some  eve- 
ning lectures  at  the  college,  to  the  theater  with 

205 


206  SUPPORT 

Mary  Foster,  and  to  the  moving  pictures,  which  she 
disliked.  One  of  Sally's  friends  invited  her  to  a  tea, 
and  she  went,  not  hoping  for  much  enjoyment. 
Contrary  to  her  expectation,  she  had  an  agreeable 
time. 

During  this  time,  she  thought  a  great  deal  about 
Suzanne.  The  child  had  been  coming  once  a  week — 
sometimes  more — staying  for  the  hours  in  which 
Mrs.  Greening  was  occupied  with  the  washing  or 
cleaning.  Constance  invariably  took  charge  of  her, 
and  kept  her  in  her  own  room.  Nobody  else  paid 
much  attention  to  her.  Constance  bought  toys  and 
invented  games,  and  prepared  food  for  the  little  girl, 
taking  a  peculiar  delight  in  every  task  involved. 
She  had  taught  the  little  one  to  call  her  "Mummy- 
Constance,"  and  she  felt  a  thrill  of  pleasure  every 
time  that  the  name  was  pronounced.  In  her  heart 
there  was  a  growing  but  not  fully  recognized  convic- 
tion that  the  child  must  inevitably  belong  to  her. 
"My  Suzanne,"  she  found  herself  saying.  "Whose 
little  girl  are  you?"  she  would  whisper,  hugging  the 
child.  She  experienced  a  mild  chagrin  when  Su- 
zanne answered  "Auntie's,"  and  a  throb  of  exulta- 
tion when  the  reply  was,  "Yours,  Mummy-Con- 
stance, yours." 

Day  by  day,  in  her  spiritual  loneliness,  keeping 
her  mind  from  Alison  Sharland,  she  examined  the 
implications  of  her  affection  for  Suzanne.  And  one 
day  the  thoughts  and  feelings  which  had  centered 
round  the  child  coalesced  into  the  sudden  cry,  "I 
must  have  her  for  my  own!" 


SUPPORT  207 

Later,  she  considered  the  case.  Why  did  she  de- 
sire this  child?  She  had  never  wanted  children.  In 
her  married  life  she  had  not  felt  the  need  which  they 
might  have  met.  In  the  first  few  years,  she  was 
happy  with  Frank,  and  he  was,  as  she  had  been  used 
to  say,  her  baby:  all  men  are  babies  to  their  last 
breath,  she  knew.  She  and  Frank  had  not  felt  set- 
tled. They  had  lived  in  Bridgeport  for  a  year,  then 
in  Yonkers,  then  in  New  York.  While  they  were  in 
the  city,  she  had  tried  to  gain  something  from  the 
opportunities  at  hand.  She  had  gone  to  art  exhibits 
and  concerts  and  the  opera  and  good  plays ;  she  had 
a  strong  liking  for  the  theater,  and  had  followed  as 
well  as  she  could  the  modern  movements  for  the  bet- 
terment of  the  stage.  And  then,  in  the  last  years, 
there  had  been  the  growing  separation  between  her 
and  Frank.  She  had  not  wanted  children  then,  and 
was  thankful,  as  the  division  widened,  that  there 
were  no  little  ones  to  complicate  the  situation.  At 
the  last,  there  had  been  the  clean,  complete  separa- 
tion, not  the  muddled  half-detachment  that  comes 
when  children  are  involved. 

Now  here  she  was  brooding  over  this  child  and 
yearning  for  her — not  her  own  or  Frank's,  but  the 
offspring  almost  of  strangers.  The  child's  need  was 
great — but  hers  was  greater.  It  was  not  merely  a 
humanitarian  impulse  which  moved  her,  though  she 
longed  to  see  the  child  find  its  place  in  life.  It  was 
not,  she  decided  after  reflection,  merely  the  "mother 
instinct"  which  the  poets  wrote  about.  That  in- 
stinct had  in  it,  when  all  was  said,  a  good  deal  of  the 


208  SUPPORT 

fierce  and  primitive  lust  of  possession.  Hers  was  a 
simple,  human  craving  for  something  close  and  sweet 
and  real,  more  sacred  than  the  accidental  and  con- 
ventional relationships.  Her  relation  to  Wilbur,  for 
instance,  was  purely  accidental,  and  she  cared  for 
Wilbur  nothing  at  all.  How  much  she  cared  for  her 
father  and  mother,  she  could  not  say:  one  could 
never  be  really  honest  on  such  a  question.  Rose  she 
loved,  but  Rose  was  difficult,  offish,  perhaps  entirely 
alienated.  There  remained  this  child — a  relic,  in  a 
way,  of  her  own  girlhood.  This  was  a  creature  to 
whom  she  could  give  the  best  she  had,  her  affection, 
her  honesty,  her  wisdom,  her  spiritual  achievement. 
— a  thing  which  she  could  construct,  not  mechani- 
cally, but  livingly,  lovingly,  forcefully.  Her  heart 
warmed,  her  soul  expanded  with  the  thought.  This 
was  no  mere  whim,  no  petulant  impulse,  no  selfish 
caprice.  It  was  the  best  of  her,  seeking  encourage- 
ment and  expression.  Nobody  should  take  it  away 
from  her.  She  would  bide  her  time,  crouch  in  silent 
waiting.  Nobody  should  avert  the  hard  necessity 
which  impelled  her. 


She  not  infrequently  slipped  away  in  the  late  after- 
noon or  early  evening  and  went  to  Mrs.  Greening's 
little  house  in  West  Thompson  Street.  One  even- 
ing she  found  herself  saying  impulsively,  after  the 
little  girl  had  been  put  to  bed,  "Mrs.  Greening,  if 
it's  possible  for  me  to  arrange  it,  will  you  let  me 
have  Suzanne?" 


SUPPORT  209 

Mrs.  Greening  was  picking  up  the  child's  clothes 
from  a  chair.  She  stopped  with  a  petticoat  in  her 
hands.  "Why,  Miss  Constance,  I  hardly  know  what 
to  say."  The  woman's  brow  was  troubled.  "You 
surprise  me  so!" 

"Think  it  over  a  little,  then."  The  voice  of  the 
other  was  thick  with  emotion.  She  had  a  great  fear 
lest  she  should  be  refused.  Her  hands  shook  under 
the  folds  of  the  cape  which  she  was  putting  on. 

"I  don't  know."    Mrs.  Greening  stood  transfixed. 

"Think  it  over,"  Constance  repeated.  "You  don't 
need  to  answer  now.  You  might  let  me  know  some 
other  time." 

Mrs.  Greening  picked  up  the  rest  of  Suzanne's 
clothes  and  hung  them  behind  the  stove.  At  last 
she  looked  at  her  visitor,  her  eyes  suffused.  "I  don't 
know  as  I'd  really  have  to  think  it  over,"  she  said. 
"I'd  like  to  have  you  have  her.  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  I'd  kind  of  had  it  away  back  in  my  mind,  all  along. 
I  don't  know  as  I  was  surprised,  though  I  felt  so  at 
first." 

"Then  you  will?"  Constance  took  a  step  forward, 
clasping  her  hands. 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course  I  will.  I  know  you'll  be  good 
to  her,  and  love  her,  and  do  for  her." 

"I  can't  do  much  now,  but  later  I  can,  I'm  sure." 
Constance  glowed  hopefully.  She  was  trembling 
with  relief  and  apprehension.  It  was  a  big  thing  to 
do — to  take  a  little  child  like  that,  and  be  respon- 
sible for  its  future.  She  sat  down.  "My  affairs  are 
unsettled  just  at  present,"  she  said.  "I  don't  know 


210  SUPPORT 

exactly  what  I'm  going  to  do.  So  I'd  better  not  be 
too  hasty,  though  I  want  her  the  first  minute  that  I 
can  have  her." 

"You  aren't  thinking  of  going  away — back  to  New 
York,  are  you?"  Mrs.  Greening  showed  her  dread  of 
being  entirely  separated  from  Suzanne. 

"No,  not  that,"  Constance  responded.  "I'll  have 
to  take  her  to  my  mother's  home  now.  But  I'll  have 
a  place  of  my  own,  after  a  while.  I  feel  sure  of  it." 

"Your  people  won't  care  to  have  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Greening,  stating  a  fact. 

"No,  probably  not.  They  won't  understand.  I'm 
— I'm  lonely,  Mrs.  Greening."  Constance  confessed 
to  this  woman  of  hard  tasks  what  she  had  not  ad- 
mitted to  anyone  else,  not  even  Sally  Rathvon. 

"I  know."  Mrs.  Greening  did  not  express  surprise 
or  even  sympathy,  but  a  sort  of  accepted  comprehen- 
sion. 

"Then — I  really  may  have  her?"  It  seemed  al- 
most too  good  to  be  true. 

"Yes.    It'll  be  hard  for  me  to  give  her  up." 

"You  have  your  own."  Constance  spoke  in  an  ac- 
cusing tone,  as  if  she  did  not  see  why  any  one  person 
should  have  so  much. 

"Yes.  I  have  my  own."  There  was  a  pause, 
while  each  woman  dwelt  on  her  individual  thoughts. 
Then  "How  soon?"  said  Mrs.  Greening. 

"Before  long.  I'll  have  to  prepare  my  people." 
Constance  could  not  hide  her  eagerness. 

"And  I'll  prepare  Suzanne.  I'll  begin  to  tell  her 
that  she's  going  with  you.  She'll  understand." 


SUPPORT  211 

"Do  you  think  she ?"  Constance  was  breath- 
less. Perhaps  Suzanne  would  not  like  going  with 
her,  after  all.  It  would  be  terrible  if  she  hung  back. 

"I  think  she  will."  Mrs.  Greening  had  a  reassur- 
ing air.  "She  loves  you  already." 

"I  hope  so.  I  feel  sure  she  does."  Constance 
went  home  walking  on  clouds.  She  could  not  bring 
herself  to  face  the  opposition  which  she  might  meet 
at  home.  She  thought  only  of  the  child,  the  joy  of 
having  her  in  the  house,  the  delight  of  doing  some- 
thing for  her,  dressing  her,  teaching  her,  displaying, 
protecting  her.  It  would  be  sweet — a  consolation 
for  sufferings  past,  a  defense  against  misfortunes  to 
come. 

3 

The  next  time  that  Suzanne  was  at  the  house, 
Constance  brought  her  to  the  lunch-table.  Disap- 
proval was  expressed,  but  not  voiced,  by  the  other 
members  of  the  family.  When  Suzanne  had  gone 
back  to  the  kitchen,  and  Mr.  Fenton  and  Rose  had 
withdrawn,  Constance  said  to  Mrs.  Fenton  abruptly, 
"I  want  to  take  her,  mother." 

"You — what?"  Mrs.  Fenton  grew  perceptibly 
paler.  She  tightened  her  fingers  on  the  napkin  she 
was  folding. 

"I  want  to  take  Suzanne,"  Constance  returned 
swiftly;  "to  keep  her;  to  have  her  for  my  own." 

Mrs.  Fenton's  face  was  eloquent  of  her  horror.  It 
was  as  if  she  said  aloud,  "This  is  the  last  straw." 
She  did  not  reply,  but  made  only  an  inarticulate 
noise  in  her  throat. 


212  SUPPORT 

"Well?"  said  Constance  with  the  undisguised 
grimness  of  decision.  She,  too,  was  pale. 

"Oh,  Connie!"  Mrs.  Fenton's  voice  rose.  "As  if 
we  didn't  have  enough  to  worry  about!" 

"I'm  sorry  that  you  don't  approve,  mother,"  Con- 
stance replied  without  agitation,  "but  I've  thought 
about  this  a  good  deal,  and  I  have  decided  that  I 
have  to  have  her." 

"You  mean — bring  her  here?"  Mrs.  Fenton  tried 
to  stifle  her  resentment. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  would  be  that,"  Constance  made 
rejoinder.  "I  haven't  any  other  place — yet." 

At  the  word  yet,  Mrs.  Fenton  cried  out  in  conster- 
nation, "You  aren't  going  to  leave  us,  are  you,  Con- 
nie?" 

"I  may  sometime.  But  not  now,"  Constance  as- 
sured her. 

"You  may  sometime,  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Fenton 
in  a  low  voice.  "You'll  probably  marry  again.  But 
you  won't  go  until  then,  will  you?  Please  say  you 
won't." 

"Mother,"  Constance  paused  before  she  answered, 
"I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do.  I  feel  very  uncer- 
tain, very  confused.  But  I  know  that  wherever  I 
am,  I  must  have  Suzanne.  If  you  won't  have  her 
here,  I  shall  have  to  go  elsewhere." 

Mrs.  Fenton  rose  and  began  walking  about  ner- 
vously. "Oh,  don't  go,  Connie,"  she  said.  "Per- 
haps you'll  be  marrying  again.  And  until  you  do — 
yes,  you'll  have  to  bring  her  here.  It  won't  be  so 
bad.  I  don't  care — much.  But  it  does  seem  as  if 


SUPPORT  213 


we  have  all  we  can  look  after — your  father " 

Her  voice  broke. 

"I'll  try  not  to  let  Suzanne  burden  you  too  much," 
said  Constance.  "But  you  see,  I  put  in  a  good  deal 
of  the  money  here,  and  I  think  I  ought " 

"I  know,  Connie.  It's  only  right,"  Mrs.  Fenton 
answered.  "And  yet  I  don't  understand  just  why 
you  want  her." 

"Never  mind  about  that,"  said  Constance  as  cheer- 
fully as  she  could.  "Let's  try  it,  and  if  it  doesn't 
work  out,  there  will  be  something  else — some  other 
way." 

"You  mean " 

"I'm  not  outlining." 

"Has  Mrs.  Greening  consented?"  asked  Mrs.  Fen- 
ton  hoping  that  there  might  still  be  some  stumbling- 
block  in  the  way  of  her  daughter's  project. 

"Yes.  It's  all  settled.  But  I'm  not  going  to  bring 
Suzanne  here  right  away;  not  until  I've  made  some 
other  decisions." 

"Perhaps  you'll  change  your  mind."  Mrs.  Fenton 
could  still  be  hopeful. 

"Not  likely,"  said  Constance.  She  could  not  ex- 
plain to  her  mother  her  feeling  about  Suzanne. 

Rose  received  the  news  philosophically.  "It's 
your  own  business,  Connie,"  she  said.  "I  don't 
blame  you  a  bit.  One  has  to  have  somebody.  But 
it  does  seem " 

"I  have  to  live  my  own  life."  Constance  spoke 
almost  in  a  whisper. 

"That's    true."    Rose    regarded    her    curiously. 


214  SUPPORT 

"Nobody  else  can  say  what  you  ought  to  do."  Con- 
stance felt  rebuked  by  the  charitable  attitude  of 
Rose,  who  had  suffered  so  much  condemnation.  "If 
you  think  Suzanne  will  make  you  happier,  by  all 
means  have  her — here  or  anywhere  else."  Her  tone 
implied  that  Constance  might  find  the  child  a  bur- 
den. "Are  you  going  to  adopt  her?" 

"Eventually,  I  suppose.  I  haven't  decided  every- 
thing." 

"Well,  go  to  it,  Con."  Rose  yawned  and  reached 
for  a  book.  "Anything  that  you  want  to  do  suits 
me.  I  know  enough  about  life  to  see  that  it's  a 
puzzle,  at  the  best." 

Constance  felt  that  Rose's  nonchalance  was  largely 
assumed,  but  she  was  grateful  not  to  have  active  op- 
position from  her  sister.  She  dreaded  hearing  what 
Wilbur  would  say.  As  yet  Mr.  Fenton  had  not  been 
informed.  He  would  object,  of  course ;  but  what  he 
thought  would  not  really  count. 


In  the  meantime,  other  things  were  happening. 
"You're  wanted  on  the  'phone,  Connie,"  said  Mrs. 
Fenton  one  morning  after  breakfast. 

Constance  went  to  the  telephone.  The  City  Su- 
perintendent of  Schools  was  calling  her.  He  was  a 
new  man,  in  his  first  year  in  Blanchard.  "Mrs. 
Moffatt,"  he  said  courteously,  "someone  spoke  to 
me  about  you.  I  wondered  whether  you  would  come 
on  our  list  as  a  substitute  teacher?" 


SUPPORT  215 

"Why,  I  don't  know."  Constance  was  surprised 
and  confused.  She  hardly  knew  how  to  take  the 
suggestion,  though  it  gave  her  an  offer  of  employ- 
ment, such  as  she  had  told  herself  she  ardently  de- 
sired. 

"It's  difficult  to  get  really  good  people  for  substi- 
tutes," said  the  voice  on  the  wire. 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I'm  a  really  good  person,"  said 
Constance  with  a  deprecatory  laugh. 

"Hm.  Well,  you've  had  some  experience,  I  be- 
lieve. You  were  in  the  system  for  a  year  or  so, 
weren't  you,  some  time  ago?" 

"Yes.  I  taught  in  the  schools  here  in  Blanchard  for 
a  little  over  a  year,"  Constance  replied.  She  was 
rapidly  considering  the  possibilities  of  this  offer.  It 
might  mean  exactly  the  right  thing.  She  would  not 
be  occupied  all  the  time;  yet  she  would  be  earning 
something,  making  a  beginning  of  independence. 

"Won't  you  try  it  again?"  the  Superintendent  was 
saying.  "Perhaps  we  could  make  some  arrangement 
with  you." 

"We — ell,  I  might."  Constance  yielded  reluct- 
antly. She  was  afraid  that  she  would  not  like  teach- 
ing; she  distrusted  her  ability  to  succeed  in  it.  Yet 
the  opportunity  had  offered.  It  seemed  providen- 
tial. It  was  only  right  to  consider  the  position,  at 
least. 

"Will  you  come  down  to  my  office  to-day,  and 
talk  about  it?" 

Yes,  she  would  come.  She  hung  up  the  receiver 
with  a  feeling  of  fatality.  "It's  just  what  I  didn't 


216  SUPPORT 

want  to  do,"  she  said  to  herself;  "and  it  puts  off  my 
taking  Suzanne."  She  could  not  leave  the  child  all 
day,  even  occasionally,  to  add  to  Mrs.  Fenton's  af- 
flictions. "But  it's  a  start.  It's  doing  something. 
I'll  try  it." 

She  went  to  tell  her  mother.  "It's  dreadfully  hard 
work,"  said  Mrs.  Fenton.  She  made  no  secret  of  her 
disapprobation.  "You  won't  like  it,  Connie." 

"Probably  not,"  Constance  agreed.  "Nobody  likes 
hard  work." 

When  Rose  was  told,  she  said,  "I  saw  you  coming 
to  it.  You'll  hate  the  work,  I'm  sure.  But  it's  your 
own  business.  I  suppose  you  won't  take  Suzanne 
now." 

"Not  right  away,"  said  Constance  with  hesitation. 

Mr.  Fenton  scowled  and  shook  his  head,  when 
Constance  broached  the  subject.  "I  don't  think  it's 
right  for  you  to  be  out  away  from  your  family  all 
day,"  he  said,  "when  you  could  just  as  well  stay  at 
home." 

There  was,  on  the  whole,  surprisingly  little  opposi- 
tion. Constance  began  her  work  with  timidity. 
Suppose  she  shouldn't  be  able  to  do  it?  Suppose 
she  should  be  a  failure?  She  summoned  her  pride 
and  her  courage  to  her  support. 

It  was,  she  secretly  admitted,  a  satisfaction  to  be 
out  of  the  house,  where  gloom  reigned  so  much  of  the 
time.  The  schoolrooms  to  which  she  was  called  were 
modern,  well  lighted,  fairly  well  ventilated.  Con- 
stance found,  to  her  satisfaction,  that  she  got  on  ex- 
cellently with  the  pupils.  They  behaved  with  de- 


SUPPORT  217 

corum,  and  gave  her  little  trouble.  She  did  not 
mind  the  work  of  looking  up  lessons,  or  even  the 
effort  of  taking  hold  of  things  on  short  notice,  which 
was  one  of  the  requirements  of  her  situation. 
Nevertheless,  she  had  not  been  at  the  work  for  a 
week  until  she  began  to  suspect  that  it  was  not  to 
her  taste.  The  money  which  she  earned  was  more 
than  acceptable.  It  gave  her  a  vivid  pleasure  as  a 
tangible  result  of  her  labors — an  evidence  of  her 
economic  value.  She  balanced  her  growing  dislike 
of  the  work  against  her  joy  in  being  a  useful  worker. 


All  the  time,  she  was  wondering  about  Alison 
Sharland — where  he  was,  what  he  was  doing  and 
thinking,  how  he  felt  toward  her,  whether  he  was 
going  to  let  Schelling  cut  him  off  from  his  friendship 
with  the  Fentons,  whether  his  pride  would  dominate 
his  sense  and  his  affections.  Then,  on  Saturday,  he 
called  her  on  the  telephone.  "I've  been  out  of 
town,"  he  said.  His  voice  was  hesitant,  but  he  did 
not  make  explanations.  "May  I  come  over  this  eve- 
ning?" 

"Of  course,"  answered  Constance.  Her  intuition 
seemed  to  read  the  situation.  He  had  resolved  to 
break  off  relations  with  the  Fentons  because  their 
association  with  Schelling  annoyed  and  disgusted 
him;  but  after  ten  days  of  thought  he  had  decided 
that  Constance  was  not  to  be  given  up.  Unwilling, 
shamefaced,  he  was  coming  back  to  her.  This  return 


218  SUPPORT 

was  a  higher  tribute  than  mere  continued  allegiance. 
He  had  tested  his  regard  for  her,  and  had  found  that 
it  demanded  the  humbling  of  his  pride. 

Now  that  she  was  out  of  the  house  during  the 
week,  there  were  endless  tasks  to  be  done  while  she 
was  at  home.  She  went  from  one  to  another  with 
her  usual  logical  swiftness,  and  her  mind  kept  pace 
with  her  bodily  activities.  But  the  mental  opera- 
tions were  not  so  well  ordered  as  the  physical.  "It's 
too  bad,"  she  thought,  "that  Suzanne  can't  come  to 
the  house  now  that  I'm  teaching.  I  know  she'll 
miss  me.  Will  she  grow  away  from  me?  Must  I 
win  her  all  over  again?  I  must  go  often  to  Mrs. 
Greening's,  no  matter  how  busy  I  am.  What  will 
Alison  think  about  my  teaching?  He  won't  like  it. 
I  don't  believe  I'll  keep  at  it  very  long,  anyhow. 
There  must  be  something  else  that  I  can  do.  I 
must  give  up  my  allowance  from  Frank.  It's  wrong 
to  take  it.  If  I  marry  anybody,  then  I'll  give  it  up, 
and  that  will  solve  the  problem.  There  will  be 
plenty  of  money.  I'll  probably  have  an  allowance, 
to  do  as  I  like  with.  I  can  give  some  to  mother. 
Oh,  dear,  it's  awful,  thinking  about  money  all  the 
time !  My  hands  are  getting  red,  with  washing  these 
collars.  Alison  has  such  nice  hands.  I  wonder  what 
Frank  is  doing?  Will  Mrs.  Carmichael  make  him 
happy — happier  than  I  did?  Is  there  any  reason 
why  I  couldn't  make  some  man  happy?  I  wonder  if 
Rose  will  marry  Herman  Schelling?  Whatever 
happens,  I  must  have  Suzanne." 

Thus  her  thoughts  ran  on.    They  were  still  going 


SUPPORT  219 

at  breakneck  speed  when  Alison  arrived  that  evening. 
Rose  had  gone  to  the  Orpheum  with  Schelling,  and 
the  drawing-room  was  free.  Constance  had  made  up 
her  mind  not  to  refer  to  past  events  or  to  Sharland's 
absence.  He  told  her  briefly  that  he  had  been  up  hi 
North  Dakota  on  business.  The  cold  was  terrific 
up  there,  he  said.  It  was  bad  enough  here,  but  up 
there  it  was  worse.  He  spoke  of  the  isolation  of  the 
farmers  on  the  plains  during  the  winter  months,  the 
hardships  of  the  frontier  life.  Constance  listened, 
studying  his  face.  He  looked  thinner,  she  thought ; 
troubled,  perhaps.  She  could  not  see  into  his  mind  ; 
she  did  not  know  what  dwelt  there  of  remembrance 
or  indecision.  She  had  not  forgotten  the  mystical 
existence  of  Hilda  Farrar.  Living  or  dead,  the  girl 
might  still  be  a  rival.  Rival.  That  was  a  queer 
word.  She  did  not  want  Alison  Sharland  badly 
enough  to  consider  anyone  a  rival.  She  wanted 
nothing,  she  assured  herself,  but  a  wholehearted 
friendship.  As  to  marriage,  she  had  entertained  the 
idea,  to  be  sure,  but  not  seriously. 

"I  brought  along  some  of  Galsworthy's  new  plays." 
He  took  a  book  from  his  pocket.  "I  didn't  feel  much 
like  talking,  this  evening.  I'm  a  little  depressed.  I 
thought  it  would  be  pleasant  just  to  sit  here;  and 
read,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  as  if  he  had  forgotten 
the  book. 

"I'd  like  that,  too,"  said  Constance.  Talking 
might  be  awkward.  She  did  not  want  a  lot  of  ex- 
planations and  discussions. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  all  this  time?"  asked 


220  SUPPORT 

Sharland.  All  this  time  suggested  a  weariness  in 
the  lapse. 

"Working,"  Constance  answered.  Then  she  be- 
thought herself.  "Teaching,"  she  said. 

"Teaching?"  He  looked  astonished.  "Oh,  tutor- 
ing some  cub  on  the  Hill,  I  suppose." 

"No.  Teaching  in  the  schools;  substituting,"  she 
persisted.  "I've  been  at  it  every  day." 

"Not  really?"  He  looked  at  her  speculatively. 
Was  he  wondering  whether  she  had  enough  to  live 
on?  "What  are  you  doing  that  for?"  he  asked. 

"I  wanted  to  do  something.  It  won't  hurt  me." 
It  was  an  inadequate  explanation. 

"No."  He  frowned.  "But  somehow,  I  like  to 
think  of  you  as  having  leisure.  You  like  to  read,  to 
take  things  calmly,  to  be  at  home " 

He  was  expressing  his  idea  of  a  "lady" — a  married 
lady,  with  a  home  of  her  own,  Constance  perceived. 
She  sighed  involuntarily.  "Yes.  But — it  isn't  my 
own  home."  She  had  not  meant  to  say  so  much. 

"No,"  he  said  quickly.  "I  realize  that."  She 
gathered  that  his  mind  had  gone  back  to  the  Sunday 
night  supper. 

She  guessed  that  he  wanted  to  ask  her  why  she  had 
come  back  to  a  home  that  was  not  her  own.  Per- 
haps, she  thought  swiftly,  he  might  imagine  that  she 
had  come  back  on  his  account.  She  went  warm  all 
over  at  the  notion.  She  must  dispose  of  it.  "I — I 
was  homesick,"  she  said.  "I  wanted  someone." 

"Yes." 

What  a  difficult,  unresponsive  person  he  was !    She 


SUPPORT  221 

noted  with  alarm  that  she  had  made  matters  worse, 
by  saying  that  she  wanted  someone.  "I  mean,"  she 
floundered,  "that  I  wanted  my  own  people.  One 
does — sometimes,"  she  supplemented,  as  if  to  say, 
"No  matter  what  they  are  like,  one  wants  them." 

"I  understand."  He  exonerated  her  from  the  sus- 
picion of  seeking  him.  "Shall  we  read?" 

All  the  time  that  he  was  reading,  her  thoughts 
were  not  on  the  play.  "I  hope  he  doesn't  think  I 
am  appealing  to  his  sympathies,"  she  was  saying. 
"How  difficult  it  is  to  keep  on  terms  of  mere  friend- 
ship with  a  man,  and  not  say  something  awkward, 
or  say  too  much  or  too  little."  She  began  to  wonder 
whether  there  were  so  very  much  to  him,  after  all; 
whether  his  coldness  were  not  the  result  of  a  defect 
in  character,  rather  than  of  reserye  or  self-control. 

6 

"You  were  right,"  Constance  said  to  Rose  one  eve- 
ning. "I  don't  believe  that  teaching  is  the  right 
sort  of  thing  for  me." 

"I  was  sure  it  wasn't,"  Rose  made  answer.  "You 
can't  fit  yourself  into  that  groove." 

"I  suppose  I  can't,"  said  Constance.  "The  work 
is  dignified  enough,  and  it's  not  so  awfully  hard — 
until  it  gets  to  be  a  routine.  But  it  oppresses  me. 
I  can't  go  on  with  it.  It  isn't  fair  to  the  school  sys- 
tem or  to  the  children  for  me  to  keep  at  it,  feeling 
as  I  do." 

"A  great  many  women  do  go  on  with  it,  even  feel- 
ing as  you  do,"  Rose  reminded  her. 


222  SUPPORT 

"Yes,  but  they  haven't  courage  enough  to  stop." 

"Or  a  check  every  month  from  a  divorced  hus- 
band," jeered  Rose. 

"Or  a  check  from  a  divorced  husband,"  Constance 
repeated.  "That  may  make  a  difference." 

"Wilbur  says  he  wouldn't  have  a  divorced  woman 
in  his  schools,"  came  from  Rose. 

"Perhaps  other  people  don't  feel  as  Wilbur  does," 
Constance  replied. 

She  hesitated  to  send  in  her  resignation,  lest  she 
should  be  considered  erratic  in  giving  up  the  work 
so  soon.  But  she  was  to  repent  her  delay.  She  re- 
ceived a  note  one  afternoon,  requesting  her  to  go  to 
the  office  of  the  Superintendent.  Wonderingly  she 
complied.  The  Superintendent,  a  thin,  sandy-haired 
man,  sat  at  his  desk  and  motioned  her  to  a  seat. 
"School  men  never  rise  when  a  woman  comes  into  the 
room,"  she  thought  with  distaste. 

"Mrs.  Moffatt,"  the  man  said,  keeping  his  eyes 
down,  as  he  fiddled  with  a  silver  pencil,  "some  people 
have — er — been  making  a  little  trouble  about  your 
— er — appointment." 

"Oh — have  they?"  Constance  was  sincerely 
amazed.  She  had  not  supposed  that  anyone  was 
concerned  with  her  humble  position. 

"Yes.  I  may  say "  The  Superintendent 

looked  out  of  the  window.  "The  truth  is,  when  you 
applied  for  a  place  with  us " 

"You  asked  me,"  Constance  interpolated. 

He  went  on.  "When  you — er — talked  with  me 
about  the  matter,  I  supposed — I  was  under  the  im- 


SUPPORT  223 

pression  that  you  were  a  widow.  Now  there  are 
certain  people — it  isn't  necessary  to  name  them,  Mrs. 
Moffatt — who  prefer  not  to  have  a  woman  teaching 
here  who  is  a — ah — you  understand." 

"Perfectly,"  said  Constance,  calmly.  "A  divorced 
woman,  you  mean." 

"Well — yes.  I  may  say  that  that  is  what  I  had  in 
mind.  Ah — it's  merely  as  I  may  say — ah — a  purely 
practical  issue.  It's  not  any  reflection  on  anybody's 
— well — character.  It's  just  that  there  are  a  good 
many  women  who  need  positions,  as  it  were,  and 
who  haven't — er — any  other  resources  than  their  own 
efforts." 

"I  understand."  Constance  gazed  thoughtfully 
at  the  man  in  the  swivel  chair.  He  flushed  and  kept 
his  eyes  averted.  "Then  it  would  simplify  things  if 
I  should  resign?" 

"I  may  say — it  probably  would,  Mrs.  Moffatt," 
he  replied.  "I'm  so  sorry — a  misunderstanding — 
most  unfortunate." 

"I'll  do  so  at  once."  Constance  rose  to  go.  She 
was  saying  to  herself,  "Now  I  can  have  Suzanne!" 
She  went  out  of  the  office  deeply  humiliated;  and 
yet  she  could  not  help  rejoicing  in  her  freedom.  It 
had  not  dawned  upon  her  that  anyone  could  object 
to  her  acting  as  a  substitute  teacher  in  the  public 
schools;  but  now  that  she  thought  about  it,  she  saw 
that  the  schools  were,  in  a  manner,  sacred.  She  tried 
to  be  scrupulously  fair.  If  she  had  a  child — like 
Suzanne,  for  instance — and  she  sent  it  to  school, 
should  she  be  pleased  to  have  it  in  the  hands  of  a 


224  SUPPORT 

divorcee?  Probably  not:  that  is,  if  she  were  a  thor- 
oughly conventional  mother  of  a  family,  who  went 
regularly  to  church,  and  whose  husband  (also  a 
churchgoer)  paid  taxes  to  support  the  schools.  No, 
it  was  not  surprising.  And  then,  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  "purely  practical"  issue,  too,  though  she 
knew  that  the  Superintendent  had  made  it  an  ex- 
cuse. There  were  plenty  of  spinsters  and  widows 
who  had  to  earn  a  living.  It  did  look  greedy  for 
one  who  received  money  from  a  living  (if  alienated) 
husband  to  reach  out  for  the  salary  which  might  be 
going  to  an  unmarried  woman.  "He  'was  under  the 
impression  that  I  was  a  widow,'  "  she  laughed.  "The 
joke  was  on  him.  Well,  I'm  glad  I'm  out  of  it,  and 
the  method  doesn't  matter." 

At  first  she  only  told  them  at  home  that  she  had 
resigned. 

"I'm  glad  you  had  sense  enough,"  said  Rose. 

"The  work  was  too  hard,"  said  Mrs.  Fenton. 

"Now  you'll  stay  at  home/'  said  her  father. 

Constance  kept  her  own  counsel.  Her  teaching 
venture  had  failed,  but  it  had  done  something  for 
her,  at  any  rate.  It  had  given  her  a  glimpse  of  the 
delight  of  earning  money.  It  had  deepened  in  her 
mind  the  necessity  of  "going  out"  and  working,  and 
claiming  a  reward  for  her  endeavors.  Without  go- 
ing more  completely  into  the  questions  which  were 
involved,  she  ran  over  to  Mrs.  Greening's  to  ask  that 
Suzanne  might  come  over  the  next  morning  and  stay 
all  day. 


SUPPORT  225 


Sally's  baby  was  born  on  one  of  these  January 
days.  Constance  went  over  promptly,  to  see  the 
baby  and  its  mother.  Sally,  vigorous  and  beaming, 
lay  back  among  pillows.  Constance  took  her  hand 
and  bent  to  kiss  her.  The  eyes  of  both  were  brim- 
ming. Sally  passed  her  hand  caressingly  over  her 
friend's  smooth  cheek.  "Connie,  dear,"  she  whis- 
pered, "you  ought  to  have  had  one  of  your  own." 

Constance  did  not  answer.  "I  want  one,"  she  was 
thinking.  Again  she  envied  Sally,  but  with  a  long- 
ing which  she  knew  was  to  be  satisfied. 

She  kissed  Sally  again,  on  the  forehead.  She  left 
her  offering,  a  hand-made  dress  for  the  baby,  and 
went  to  the  next  room,  where  the  nurse  displayed  the 
child — a  red,  ancient-faced  creature  with  a  button 
mouth.  Gladys  and  Owen  were  staring  at  it,  round- 
eyed. 

"It's  awful  funny,"  commented  Gladys,  wrin- 
kling her  nose. 

"Awful  funny,"  echoed  Owen,  a  fat,  black-eyed 
young  Welshman  in  miniature  trousers  and  smock. 

"It's  going  to  be  ours,"  Gladys  triumphed,  jump- 
ing up  and  down.  "Daddy  says  we  can  keep  it." 

"So  obliging  of  Daddy,"  murmured  Constance. 
She  was  glad  to  have  missed  Griffith.  "Then  you 
aren't  going  to  let  me  have  it?" 

"I  should  say  not!"  returned  Gladys  indignantly. 

"Say  not,"  iterated  Owen,  mirroring  his  sister's 
flash  of  the  eyes. 


226  SUPPORT 

"We  want  it,"  cried  Gladys.  The  nurse  smiled 
faintly  at  her  vehemence.  "Can't  you  get  one  of 
your  own,  Auntie  Constance?"  the  child  suggested. 
"The  doctor  will  bring  you  one.  I'll  bet  you  he 
will!" 

"I  don't  believe  I'll  have  to  ask  him."  Constance 
spoke  slowly,  looking  down  into  the  eager  face  of  the 
little  girl.  "I  know  where  I  can  get  one.  But  she 
won't  be  as  tiny  as  this  baby.  She'll  be  almost  as 
big  as  Owen,  here." 

Gladys  marveled.  "When  are  you  going  to  get 
her?"  she  asked,  with  huge  respect. 

"Right  away,"  glowed  Constance.  "Well — not  to- 
day; but  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  would  be  to-mor- 
row." 


CHAPTER  XI 


CONSTANCE  was  on  her  way  to  Mrs.  Greening's  in 
West  Thompson  Street.  Her  heart  was  thumping, 
and  she  had  a  sinking  feeling  which  she  could  not 
place  nor  define.  She  was  conscious  of  the  rash  and 
irrevocable  in  what  she  was  doing;  yet  she  could 
refrain  no  longer  from  following  her  heart's  desire. 
She  must  have  Suzanne,  and  she  could  not  wait  for 
this  consummation  of  her  secret  wish.  She  walked 
swiftly,  and  then  held  herself  back,  when  fear  as- 
sailed her  lest  she  should  not,  after  all,  attain  what 
she  was  seeking.  Now  and  then  she  stopped  en- 
tirely, her  hand  upon  a  convenient  fence  or  gate- 
post, stricken  with  sudden  terror  of  what  might 
come  and  what  might  not. 

At  Mrs.  Greening's  house,  she  stood  upon  the  nar- 
row step,  knocking,  listening.  Mrs.  Greening  came 
to  the  door,  peering  out  into  the  cold  dusk.  "It's  I — 
Constance  Moffatt,"  said  the  visitor.  Then  the 
words  came  out  impetuously.  "May  I  have  her  now, 
Mrs.  Greening?" 

The  older  woman,  steadying  herself  in  the  door- 
way, paused  before  she  spoke.  When  her  answer 
came,  it  was  quiet  and  self-possessed.  "Are  you  sure 
you  want  her  now?" 

227 


228  SUPPORT 

"Yes,  I'm  sure.  I'm  not  going  to  wait  any  longer," 
said  Constance.  A  curious  trembling  unnerved  her. 
She  knew  that  her  voice  was  hoarse  and  unnatural. 
"She  isn't  asleep?" 

"No.  I  was  holding  her,"  Mrs.  Greening  replied 
slowly.  She  could  not  conceal  her  pain  at  the  pros- 
pect of  losing  the  little  girl. 

"Has  she  had  her  supper?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  she  can  go  to  bed  immediately,  when  we 
get  home."  Constance  took  refuge  in  unimportant 
remarks.  Her  throat  ached  with  the  effort  of  speech. 

"It's  the  best  way.  Then  she  can  get  a  fresh 
start  in  the  morning.  Come  in."  The  two  women 
had  been  so  absorbed  in  their  thoughts  that  they  had 
not  regarded  the  amenities. 

Little  Suzanne  was  in  the  kitchen  with  the  older 
of  the  two  Greening  children.  They  both  stared 
frankly.  Suzanne  came  and  took  hold  of  Constance's 
skirt,  and  rubbed  her  cheek  against  it.  Constance 
put  her  fingers  against  the  child's  cheek  caressingly. 
She  allowed  herself  even  now  a  tenderness  of  pos- 
session, in  spite  of  the  solemnity  of  what  she  was 
undertaking.  "You're  going  with  me,  dear,"  she 
said. 

Suzanne  looked  up,  startled.  "Now?"  she  asked, 
with  trust  and  yet  with  shrinking. 

"Yes,  darling,"  Constance  assured  her.  "You're 
to  get  your  coat  and  hood  on,  and  come  with  me. 
We're  going  home." 

Suzanne  was  dubious.    Tears  came  into  her  eyes. 


SUPPORT  229 

She  looked  over  at  Mrs.  Greening,  and  yet  clung  to 
Constance. 

"It's  all  right,  dear."  Mrs.  Greening  nodded 
cheerfully.  "You're  going  with  Mummy-Constance, 
and  she'll  let  you  sleep  in  her  bed.  You  know  how 
nice  that  is." 

Suzanne  nodded,  her  small  face  wistful.  She  let 
go  of  Constance's  hand,  and  put  up  her  arms.  Con- 
stance knelt  and  crushed  the  little  girl  in  a  quick 
embrace.  "Come  on,  now,"  she  said  in  as  matter-of- 
fact  a  voice  as  her  emotion  would  permit;  "here's 
your  coat.  Let's  put  it  on — quick." 

The  Greening  boy  stood  open-mouthed.  "Is  Susie 
going  away?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes,  John,  she's  going  with  Mrs.  Moffatt,"  his 
mother  explained.  "You  know  I  told  you  she  might 
go  at  any  time." 

"Uh-huh»"  John  watched  them  sleepily,  hardly 
knowing  whether  to  pity  or  envy  Suzanne. 

"You'll  telephone  for  a  taxicab,  won't  you?"  said 
Constance  to  Mrs.  Greening.  "There  is  some  way  of 
getting  one,  isn't  there?" 

"Just  two  doors  down,  they  let  me  use  the  'phone." 
Mrs.  Greening  threw  a  shawl  over  her  head  and  went 
out,  while  Constance  put  on  Suzanne's  wraps.  Ty- 
ing the  hood,  she  stooped  and  gave  the  child  a  hasty 
and  breathless  kiss. 

Mrs.  Greening  came  back.  "It  will  be  here  in  a 
few  minutes,"  she  said.  "I'll  get  her  things."  Her 
hands  were  shaking  as  she  brought  out  a  shabby 
suitcase,  and  the  few  garments  and  small  belong- 


230  SUPPORT 

ings  which  represented  Suzanne's  worldly  effects. 
"There  are  a  few  trinkets  and  photographs  that  I'll 
give  you  later,"  she  remarked,  her  eyes  averted  from 
the  child.  "Honoria  would  want  her  to  have  them. 
Here's  the  funny  little  bowl  that  she  likes  for  her 
bread  and  milk.  It's  one  her  mother  had,  you  know. 
You  might  take  that  along  now."  She  wrapped  the 
bowl  in  paper  and  Constance  took  it  clumsily,  hold- 
ing it  under  her  arm.  Her  thoughts  were  all  on 
Suzanne. 

The  cab  came  to  a  noisy  stop  outside.  Constance 
held  Suzanne  up  to  kiss  Mrs.  Greening,  and  lower  to 
kiss  John.  She  could  not  brook  delay.  She  hurried 
the  little  girl  down  the  walk,  and  lifted  her  into  the 
taxicab.  Mrs.  Greening  followed  with  the  suitcase. 

"Good  night.  Thank  you — thank  you — thank 
you."  Constance  leaned  out  of  the  cab  and  pressed 
the  other  woman's  hand. 

"Good  night.     Good  night,  Suzanne." 

The  door  slammed;  Constance  was  holding  Su- 
zanne close  to  her  side  in  the  darkness.  "It's  all 
right,  dearie,"  she  whispered.  "It's  all  right.  You're 
going  with  me."  The  child  made  a  sound  of 
submission  and  content.  Constance  felt  her  own 
mind  a  swirl  of  apprehension,  defiance,  exultation, 
relief.  No  matter  what  happened  now,  she  had  Su- 
zanne. There  was  that  much  gained,  and  it  never 
could  be  lost. 

They  reached  the  house.  The  child  trotted  be- 
side her,  while  she  carried  the  suitcase.  In  the 
warm  hall,  she  heard  the  voices  of  Rose  and  Schel- 


SUPPORT  231 

ling  from  the  drawing-room,  and  those  of  her  father 
and  mother  from  the  sitting-room.  Her  mother 
came  to  the  door.  "Oh,  it's  you,  Constance,"  she 
said. 

"Yes,"  Constance  made  reply,  unmistakably  jubi- 
lant. "I've  brought  Suzanne." 

Mrs.  Fenton  said  nothing,  but  stood  looking  down 
at  the  child.  The  dim  hall  light  did  not  reveal  the 
older  woman's  feelings ;  but  there  was  that  about  her 
pose  which  suggested  an  angry  resignation.  "I'll 
take  her  right  up  to  my  room.  She's  sleepy, 
I'm  sure,"  said  Constance.  Still  Mrs.  Fenton  did 
not  speak.  The  daughter  repressed  a  sudden  throb 
of  anguish  at  the  cold  welcome  which  the  child — her 
child — was  receiving;  but  she  spoke  merrily  to  Su- 
zanne as  she  helped  her  up  the  long  stairs.  Undress- 
ing her  and  putting  her  to  bed,  she  felt  again,  rising 
in  her  breast,  the  defiance  and  tenderness  which  had 
possessed  her  when  she  had  taken  the  child  from  the 
other  home. 

Suzanne  went  quietly  to  sleep,  accepting  with 
weary  satisfaction  her  new  environment,  to  which 
she  had  become  partly  accustomed.  Constance  sat 
beside  her  on  the  bed,  thinking,  gathering  the  cour- 
age which  this  venture  of  hers  would  inevitably  de- 
mand. Among  her  emotions,  joy  outweighed  all  the 
others. 


Constance  had  realized  that  it  might  be  difficult 
having  the  child  in  the  house,  but  she  had  hardly 


232  SUPPORT 

understood  how  difficult.  There  was  an  undercurrent 
of  antagonism,  which  made  itself  felt,  although  it 
was  not  expressed  in  words.  She  tried  to  take  upon 
herself  all  the  labor  and  care  which  the  presence 
of  the  child  required,  and  to  ask  nothing  of  her 
mother  and  Rose,  except  in  some  case  of  necessity. 
Mr.  Fenton  paid  no  attention  to  the  little  thing,  and 
Suzanne  regarded  him  with  wary  silence,  and  kept 
scrupulously  away  from  the  study,  where  he  im- 
mured himself  with  newspapers  and  books. 

For  the  next  two  days,  Constance  turned  over  in 
her  mind  the  various  phases  of  her  new  problem. 
So  intent  had  she  been  on  her  desire  to  have  the  child 
that  she  had  not  fully  considered  the  effect  which  her 
decision  might  have  on  her  own  destiny.  She 
thought  now  of  Alison  Sharland,  and  realized  with  a 
sinking  heart  that  he  would  be  out  of  sympathy  with 
her  rashness,  and  that  her  ownership  of  the  child 
would  not  by  any  means  further  his  interest  in  her. 
She  had  not  told  him  of  her  intention,  partly  be- 
cause she  dreaded  telling  him,  and  partly  because, 
at  the  last,  she  had  acted  impulsively,  without  in- 
forming anyone  as  to  what  she  was  going  to  do. 

The  next  night  after  Suzanne's  arrival,  he  came 
to  call.  "We  have  a  new  member  of  the  family," 
she  told  him,  as  casually  as  she  could. 

"Have  you?    How's  that?"  he  asked  in  reply. 

"I've  taken  Suzanne,"  she  said  abruptly.  He  had, 
of  course,  known  of  the  existence  of  the  little  girl, 
and  her  occasional  short  sojourns  at  the  Fenton 
home. 


SUPPORT  233 

"Taken?"  he  repeated  inquiringly. 

"Brought  her  here  for  good;  taken  her  for  my 
own,"  said  Constance.  Even  in  her  nervousness,  she 
could  not  keep  her  pride  out  of  her  voice. 

"Oh!"  There  was  a  blank  perplexity  and  annoy- 
ance in  the  man's  face.  After  a  pause  he  said,  "Are 
you  going  to  adopt  her?" 

"Probably — sometime,"  she  answered;  "when  I've 
worked  it  out." 

"I — I'm  surprised."  He  seemed  to  be  balancing 
his  words,  Constance  thought  with  impatience.  Oh, 
if  he  would  come  out  with  something  hearty  and  en- 
couraging, like  "Bully  for  you!"  or  "You're  a 
trump!"  She  knew  better  now  than  to  expect  such 
an  outburst  from  Sharland.  He  was  cool,  judicial, 
after  his  first  show  of  disapproval.  "Just  why  did 
you  want  the  child?"  he  asked. 

"One  can't  analyze  one's  feelings  completely,"  she 
answered.  "I  wanted  her  because  I'd  grown  to  love 
her,  I  suppose.  And  then — well,  I  just  wanted  her." 

"Ought  you  to — won't  she  be  something  of  a  bur- 
den?" he  asked,  looking  narrowly  at  her. 

"Possibly.  I  dare  say  she  will."  Constance  as- 
sumed a  bravado  to  cover  her  hurt  in  Sharland's 
lack  of  sympathy.  "But  I  had  to  have  her."  She 
made  one  more  attempt  to  express  her  emotion. 
"She  seemed  to  belong  to  me."  In  her  soul  she  was 
saying,  "Oh,  won't  you  understand?" 

Sharland  met  her  eyes  uncomprehendingly. 
"How?" 

"I  knew  her  mother." 


234  SUPPORT 

"Yes,  she  was  one  of  those  Blakes,  that  used  to 
live  over  on  Clinton  Street."  There  was  a  tinge  of 
contempt  in  his  voice.  To  him,  Honoria  was  only 
one  of  "those  Blakes";  to  Constance  she  was  inef- 
fably more. 

"I  think  it  was  right  to  take  her,"  said  Constance. 

"Of  course  it's  right  for  you  to  do  what  you  want 
to."  She  distinguished  a  suppressed  irritation  in  his 
manner. 

"Do  you  think  I'm  foolish?"  She  knew  she  was 
foolish  to  ask  the  question. 

"It  isn't  for  me  to  say."  He  spoke  with  reti- 
cence. Coldness  had  come  between  them. 

Constance  had  a  suffocation  at  her  heart.  She 
knew  that  she  wanted  her  child  and  Sharland,  too. 
Yet  if  she  couldn't  have  both,  she  told  herself,  she 
would  unquestioningly  take  the  child.  "It's  true," 
she  repeated,  almost  aloud,  so  much  did  she  need 
convincing. 

"It's  your  affair,  of  course,"  Sharland  added.  He 
had  an  air  of  detachment,  as  if  he  wished  to  end  the 
conversation,  and  as  if,  also,  he  wished  to  make 
clear  to  her  that  he  was  entirely  uninvolved.  She 
must  suffer  the  consequences  of  her  own  deeds. 
She  looked  at  him  searchingly,  as  she  had  done  be- 
fore, studying  his  fine  hands,  his  reserved,  pale  face, 
now  deliberately  noncommittal. 

She  sank  back  in  her  chair.  It  was  as  if  she  had 
reached  out  for  something,  and  had  found  that  it 
eluded  her  hand.  She  turned  away  from  her  longing 


SUPPORT  235 

for  sympathy,  to  her  own  settled  determination  to 
nourish  and  protect  her  child. 


Sally,  of  course,  approved  and  rejoiced.  But  Sally 
was  too  much  absorbed,  at  the  moment,  in  her  own 
convalescence  and  her  own  renewed  motherhood  to 
be  of  much  value  to  Constance. 

Wilbur  wrote  to  his  mother,  "Tell  Con  that  I  think 
she's  the  darnedest  fool  I  ever  heard  of.  If  she 
wanted  children,  why  didn't  she  have  some  when  she 
had  a  chance?  Eleanor  says — "  Constance  waved 
away  any  further  revelations.  She  knew  pretty 
well  what  Eleanor  had  said.  She  saw  that  the  child- 
less couple  might  with  some  justice  feel  resentment 
at  her  own  high-handed  methods,  and  at  her  bold 
acquirement  of  a  child  when  they  were  denied  that 
solace.  She  put  Wilbur  and  Eleanor  out  of  her 
mind. 

It  was  during  these  days  that  she  forced  herself 
to  speak  to  Rose  once  more  about  Schelling.  It 
was  not  a  propitions  time,  perhaps,  now  that  Su- 
zanne was  in  the  house,  but  Constance  felt  that 
one  last  protest  should  be  made  from  someone  in  the 
family.  She  reasoned  that  if  the  worst  happened — 
she  did  not  define  what  the  worst  might  be — Rose 
could  blame  no  one  but  herself,  and  could  not  say 
that  her  family  had  not  attempted  her  rescue. 
Moreover,  Constance  cherished  the  forlorn  hope  that 
Rose  might  be  persuaded  to  give  up  her  German 
lover. 


236  SUPPORT 

Constance  had  made  a  point  of  seeing  Schelling 
rarely;  since  the  memorable  Sunday  night  supper, 
she  had  consistently  avoided  him.  He  came  and 
went,  and  she  caught  echoes  of  his  presence  in  the 
house,  heard  him  talking  in  the  hall,  listened  to  her 
father's  muttered  imprecations,  her  mother's  sighs 
and  cries  of  worriment.  But  could  not  face  the  man 
himself.  She  'hated  him  for  his  hold  on  Rose,  a 
hold  which  could  be  accounted  for  only  on  the  theory 
that  where  men  are  concerned,  women  are  imper- 
vious to  reason  and  common  sense. 

"Why  do  you  like  him,  Rose?"  she  asked  again  one 
afternoon,  when  Rose  had  come  home  from  her 
classes,  and  was  dressing  to  go  out. 

Rose  assumed  the  belligerent  air  which  she  in- 
stinctively put  on  whenever  Schelling  was  men- 
tioned. "I  answer  you  as  I  have  answered  before — 
did  you  ever  hear  me  say  that  I  did?"  Her  tone 
was  flippant  and  she  kept  her  eyes  from  meeting 
her  sister's  gaze. 

"No,  I  can't  stay  that  I  ever  have  heard  you  say 
that  you  cared  for  him.  But  I  can't  imagine  why 
you  put  up  with  a  man  like  that  unless  you  feel  that 
you  can't  get  on  without  him — unless  you're  in  love, 
I  mean:"  Constance  felt  that  her  last  words  on  the 
subject  should  be  plain  ones.  "He's "  She  hesi- 
tated. 

"Well — he's  what?"  Rose  took  down  a  whisk- 
broom  and  began  brushing  her  skirt. 

"Common — out  and  out  common."  Constance 
compelled  her  tongue  to  bluntness.  "And  whatever 


SUPPORT  237 

we  are,  we  aren't  that.  And  you  aren't,  Rose. 
You're  a  girl  of  refinement.  You  like  a  different  sort 
of  companionship.  You're  above  such  things,"  she 
finished  lamely. 

Rose  sulked.  "Oh,  Connie,  you're  getting  proud 
and  finicky  in  your  old  age,"  she  rejoined.  "You've 
got  so  fussy  and  conservative  that  you  don't  realize 
that  we're  all  human — at  least  those  of  us  that  are 
young." 

Constance  let  the  fling  at  her  thirty  years  remain 
unnoticed.  "I  think  I  do  understand  that,"  she  said. 
"But  there  is  his  family — " 

"Well,  you  don't  see  me  going  with  his  family,  do 
you?"  retorted  Rose.  "Anyhow,  what's  the  use  of 
being  a  snob?" 

"It  isn't  just  snobbishness."  Constance  answered 
with  all  the  patience  that  she  could  find.  "It's  a 
decent  regard  for  standards.  The  Schellings  aren't 
in  our  class.  I  don't  mean  socially,  exactly.  I 
mean,  they  don't  think  as  we  do.  They  haven't  our 
outlook.  They  don't  stand  for  the  same  thing. 
They  aren't  old  Americans." 

"Constance,  I  know  all  that."  Rose  was  also  try- 
ing to  command  a  degree  of  patience.  "I  feel  it  just 
as  much  as  you  do.  But  I  can't  bother  with  it. 
What  I  mean  is — here's  Herman :  he's  a  real  person ; 
actual,  that  is,  not  hypothetical.  He  isn't  refined,  I 
know.  He  isn't  a  Harvard  graduate.  But  he  gives 
me  a  little  of  what  I  want — diversion,  admiration, 
flattery,  if  you  want  to  call  it  that.  I  can't  go  into 
a  lot  of  finespun  arguments  about  him.  I've  got  to 


238  SUPPORT 

have  a  man's  attention.  I'm  constituted  in  that 
way.  I  can't  bear  to  be  treated  as  if  I  didn't  count. 
I  can't  have  the  kind  of  attention  that  I  want,  and 
so  I  take  what  I  can  get.  There  was  somebody  that 
I  preferred — I  think  you  know  that.  I  liked  him 
better  than  anyone  else.  But  I  put  him  off.  I 
couldn't  make  a  good  enough  appearance;  I  didn't 
have  good  enough  clothes ;  I  hated  his  feeling  that  I 
was  poor.  Oh,  why  go  over  it  all?"  she  ended  pas- 
sionately. "I  think  we've  covered  this  ground  be- 
fore." She  threw  down  the  brush  and  put  the  skirt 
on,  turning  her  back  on  Constance,  who  could  see 
that  the  girl  was  quivering  with  emotion. 

"But  Rose,"  the  older  sister  began,  beating  back 
her  own  grief  and  despair,  "you  mustn't  be  rash.  It's 
awfully  hard  to  get  away  from  a  man  when  once 
you've  got  entangled  with  him.  You  mustn't  spoil 
your  life." 

"I  can't  see  that  you're  qualified  to  give  so  much 
advice,"  Rose  answered  acridly.  "I  don't  think 
much  of  the  man  you're  getting  yourself  involved 
with.  And  I  can't  see  that  you've  made  such  a 
howling  success " 

"Oh!"  Constance  gave  a  cry  of  pain,  so  tortured 
that  Rose  turned  and  stared  at  her.  "Oh,  Rose, 
don't  do  that,"  she  pleaded.  "I  may  not  have  made 
a  success,  but  that's  all  the  more  reason  why  I  want 
you  to  do  better.  And  I  may  have  learned  a  little 
wisdom."  Had  she?  She  wasn't  sure,  but  she 
would  assume  that  she  had. 

Rose  went  over  and  put  her  hand  on  her  sister's 


SUPPORT  239 

shoulder.  "Now  see  here,  Connie,"  she  said,  not 
without  contrition,  "you've  driven  me  into  saying 
horrid  things  to  you.  I  really  don't  mean  to  be  so 
savage,  but  you  force  me  to  be.  I  try  to  leave  you 
alone.  Can't  you  do  the  same  for  me?" 

Constance  went  downstairs  with  an  aching  heart. 
She  knew  that  she  must  give  Rose  up  to  her  own 
devices.  There  was  no  use  in  saying  any  more. 
Thereafter  Schelling's  name  was  seldom  mentioned 
between  them,  and  Rose  went  her  way,  regardless 
of  the  hostility  of  her  family. 


Suzanne  was  slow  in  becoming  acclimated  to  the 
atmosphere  of  the  Fenton  home.  She  loved  Con- 
stance, and  looked  to  her  for  care,  amusement,  and 
consolation.  Mr.  Fenton  she  steered  clear  of,  shying 
away  from  him  when  he  was  near,  and  keeping  out 
of  the  room  where  he  secluded  himself.  Rose  she 
made  friends  with  in  a  tentative  way.  Rose  did  not 
actually  dislike  the  child ;  she  even  petted  her  at 
times,  in  a  hurried,  self-absorbed  manner.  It  was 
Mrs.  Fenton  that  Suzanne  most  dreaded.  She  fixed 
upon  the  older  lady  a  silent  stare  which  had  in  it  no 
condemnation,  yet  evinced  a  readiness  to  shrink  if 
there  were  signs  of  danger. 

At  all  times  the  child  was  abnormally  quiet,  show- 
ing the  effects  of  the  repression  which  had  been 
brought  to  bear  upon  her  in  the  home  in  which  Mrs. 
Greening  had  been  wont  to  leave  her.  This  con- 
straint had  by  no  means  been  removed  by  her  trans- 


240  SUPPORT 

fer  to  the  home  of  the  Fentons.  She  would  sit  in 
her  little  red  rocking-chair,  looking  at  the  advertis- 
ing pictures  in  the  magazines,  or  scribbling  on  bits  of 
paper;  or  she  would  kneel  on  the  floor,  building  a 
tower  with  blocks  and  spools.  Constance  kept  her 
in  her  own  room  as  much  as  she  could.  She  made 
and  bought  simple  toys  for  her,  told  her  stories,  sang 
to  her,  taught  her  to  count,  to  button  her  clothes,  to 
repeat  little  verses,  to  chant  tiny  French  nursery 
songs.  Suzanne  expanded  when  she  was  with  Con- 
stance. She  drooped  in  the  presence  of  the  others. 
The  foster  mother  was  pained  and  baffled.  But  she 
looked  forward  vaguely  to  a  time  when  she  could 
establish  a  securer  refuge  for  herself  and  the  child. 

It  was  a  little  thing  which  deepened  and  defined 
her  resolve. 

Constance  was  in  the  kitchen,  helping  with  the 
dinner.  Suzanne  pulled  at  her  dress.  "Can  I  have 
a  drink,  Mummy?"  she  begged. 

"Of  course,  darling,"  said  Constance.  She  filled 
a  glass  hurriedly,  set  it  on  a  chair,  and  went  back 
to  the  stove,  where  her  immediate  attention  was 
needed.  Mrs.  Fenton  stood  at  the  table,  cutting 
bread.  Suzanne,  never  quite  easy  in  her  presence, 
was  staring  at  her  while  she  reached  for  the  glass. 
The  small  fingers,  not  yet  trained  to  steadiness,  fum- 
bled, slipped,  and  dropped  the  tumbler  on  the  floor. 
It  splintered,  flashing  its  fragments  far  and  wide. 
The  water  splashed  over  Suzanne's  feet,  and  flooded 
the  floor  around. 

"Oh,  dear!"  Mrs.  Fenton  gave  a  cry  of  vexation. 


SUPPORT  241 

"Suzanne!  You  shouldn't  do  such  naughty  things. 
Bad  girl!" 

The  child  stood  petrified,  her  eyes  wide,  her  lips 
apart.  Then  a  shiver  ran  over  her.  Her  mouth 
twisted  into  a  sob.  Her  shoulders  shook.  Constance 
knelt  swiftly,  and  took  her  in  her  arms.  But  it  was 
too  late  to  reassure  the  quivering  child.  She  clung 
to  Constance  with  heartbroken  cries.  "I'm  not  a  bad 
girl.  Am  I  a  bad  girl?"  she  pleaded,  gasping  and 
weeping. 

"No,  no!  Of  course  you're  not."  Constance  of- 
fered passionate  consoling.  "Grandma  doesn't  think 
you  are.  You're  a  good  girl — oh,  such  a  good  girl." 

"I  didn't  mean  to,  Grandma,"  sobbed  Suzanne, 
looking  up  at  the  stern  face  of  the  older  woman. 

Mrs.  Fenton  was  ashamed  of  her  spiteful  impulse. 
"I  don't  suppose  you  did,"  she  conceded,  her  with- 
ered cheeks  flushing.  She  tried  to  make  her  voice 
ingratiating.  "Don't  cry,  Suzanne.  Never  mind. 
Don't  cry,"  she  said. 

But  Suzanne  had  gone  off  into  a  fit  of  crying  which 
it  seemed  impossible  to  stop.  The  nervousness  and 
fear  with  which  she  regarded  Mrs.  Fenton  had  her 
in  full  possession. 

"Mother,  look  after  the  chops."  Constance  took 
Suzanne  up  in  her  arms,  and  cuddled  her,  wiping 
away  the  tears,  soothing  her  with  endearments  and 
caresses.  They  were  of  no  avail.  Sobs  came  and 
racked  her  as  violently  as  ever.  "Oh,  my  poor  little 
child,  don't,  don't  do  that,"  whispered  Constance. 
Suzanne  pressed  close  to  the  woman's  breast,  and 


242  SUPPORT 

wept  with  unchildlike  bitterness.  "I  don't  know 
what  to  do  with  her,"  Constance  mourned,  looking 
her  reproach  at  her  mother. 

"I'm  sorry,"  murmured  Mrs.  Fenton.  "Who 
would  think  a  little  thing  like  that  would  be  so  sensi- 
tive?" 

"It's  all  about  a  glass,  too,"  said  Constance,  voic- 
ing her  scorn — "a  glass  that  doesn't  amount  to  a 
row  of  pins." 

"It  was  one  of  my  best  ones."  Mrs.  Fenton  jus- 
tified herself  with  asperity.  "It's  one  of  the  set 
that  Wilbur  and  Eleanor  gave  me  for  Christmas, 
three  years  ago." 

"Oh,  well!"  Constance  checked  herself.  She 
meant  to  say  that  no  amount  of  value  in  Christmas 
tumblers  could  make  up  for  hurting  a  child's  feel- 
ings. She  bent  her  face  to  Suzanne's  and  did  not 
finish.  Mrs.  Fenton  turned  the  chops  gloomily. 
The  water  ran  over  the  floor,  the  fragments  of  glass 
sparkling  here  and  there.  "I'll  take  her  upstairs." 
Constance  lifted  the  child  and  carried  her  to  her  own 
room.  She  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  rocking 
back  and  forth,  crooning  over  the  weeping  child. 
For  a  long  tune,  the  crying  continued  unabated. 
Then  it  grew  fainter  and  ceased  in  quivers  and  sighs 
of  exhaustion.  She  wiped  the  little  flushed  face  and 
reddened  eyes,  whispering  affectionate  words.  Her 
arms  ached,  and  her  shoulders  were  strained  with  her 
difficult  position. 

She  was  thinking,  "The  way  in  which  I  love  this 
child  is  beyond  all  reason,  almost.  At  any  rate,  it 


SUPPORT  243 

is  beyond  all  change  or  retraction.  She's  mine. 
I've  taken  her  for  better,  for  worse.  I  must,  I  must 
have  a  phce  where  I  can  keep  her  and  make  her 
happy."  This  was  her  problem  now:  to  make  a 
home  for  herself  and  Suzanne.  That  was  the  pres- 
ent end  and  aim  of  her  existence. 

Suzanne  drowsed.  Constance,  unmindful  of  the 
tasks  awaiting  her  downstairs,  sat  dreaming  over  the 
child.  And  yet,  not  dreaming,  either.  She  had 
never  been  more  logical.  "What  I  want  for  Suzanne 
is  individuality.  That  is  the  secret  of  a  complete 
life — to  be  yourself,  from  childhood  up;  not  to  be 
hampered,  coerced,  forced  this  way  or  that,  made  to 
assume  something  that  doesn't  belong  to  you,  to 
appear  what  you  are  not.  Most  of  us  are  borne; 
most  of  us  have  no  full  complete,  noble  development 
of  what  is  latent  in  us.  Suzanne  must  be  herself, 
an  individual,  developing  freely  and  joyously  into 
the  best  that  she  can  become." 

Constance  felt  herself  hardening  into  a  resolution 
which  should  lead  to  action.  Her  suffering  in  the 
child's  hurt  was  assuaged  by  her  resolve.  She  un- 
dressed the  sleeping  baby,  and  laid  her  warmly  away 
in  bed,  folding  the  blankets  about  her  with  the  ten- 
derness of  the  motherhood  which  was  now  hers.  She 
went  downstairs  to  her  belated  dinner  with  a  clearer 
vision  than  she  had  had  before  of  what  she  must  do 
in  order  to  achieve  any  individual  life  for  herself 
and  for  the  child  whose  destiny  was  interbound  with 
her  own. 


244  SUPPORT 


One  afternoon,  when  Suzanne  was  taking  her  nap, 
Constance  went  to  talk  over  her  decision  with  Sally. 
She  found  her  friend  in  a  pink  silk  negligee  and  cap, 
sitting  beside  the  baby  while  it  slept.  She  was 
crocheting  an  afghan  of  soft  white  wool.  Constance 
slipped  her  arm  about  Sally's  shoulders.  "You've 
made  a  splendid  recovery,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  I've  done  beautifully."  Sally  had  a  healthy 
color,  and  her  hands  were  firm  at  their  work.  "You 
know  I  was  perfectly  well  all  along.  The  baby  is 
to  be  named  Llewellyn,  after  all,  Connie."  She 
looked  up  sidewise  at  her  caller,  the  corners  of  her 
eyes  crinkling  with  humor. 

"Oh,  Sally,  it  isn't!"  Constance  was  vexed  with 
Sally  for  giving  in.  Griffith  had  insisted  on  this  im- 
possible name,  because  it  had  belonged  to  a  Welsh 
grandfather. 

"Yes,  poor  little  dot.  Does  urns  have  to  have  an 
awful  old  Welsh  name?"  Mrs.  Rathvon  put  her 
hand  caressingly  on  the  sleeping  infant,  whose  face, 
now  properly  pink,  was  cuddled  against  a  lace- 
trimmed  pillow.  "Llewellyn  Townsend  Rathvon. 
It's  terrible,  isn't  it?" 

"I  believe  you  like  it,"  said  Constance  accusingly. 

"I  don't,  exactly."  Sally  looked  a  bit  guilty. 
"But  you  see,  Grif  was  set  on  it — and  I  like  to  please 
him.  It  was  little  enough  to  ask." 

"Little  enough!"    Constance  began  with  indigna- 


SUPPORT  245 

tion.  "After — but  what's  the  use?  You'll  bow 
down  to  your  Griffith  till  the  end  of  time." 

"One  wants  to  live  in  harmony,"  answered  Sally, 
her  eyes  sober.  "Giving  up  the  little  things  is  easy 
enough." 

"I'm  afraid  I  didn't  find  it  so,"  Constance  sighed. 
She  seldom  referred  to  her  married  life,  lest  she 
should  become  the  thing  she  dreaded — a  nuisance. 

"Well,  dear,"  cried  Sally,  with  her  usual  anima- 
tion, "sit  down  and  tell  me  about  yourself.  How  are 
you  coming  out?  I  haven't  heard  much  lately  about 
how  things  are  going." 

"It  would  be  a  relief  not  to  have  to  hear,  I  sup- 
pose," said  Constance,  still  keeping  her  hand  on 
Sally's  arm.  "You've  had  about  enough  of  me  and 
my  troubles." 

"No,  I  haven't."  Sally's  fingers  went  up  to  reach 
for  Constance's  hand.  "You're  privileged  to  tell 
them  to  me,  Connie.  I  can't  do  much,  but  at  least  I 
can  listen  and  sympathize." 

"Dear  Sally."  Constance  returned  the  pressure 
of  the  fingers  clasping  hers. 

"I'm  so  glad  you've  really  taken  Suzanne." 
Sally  spoke  in  the  practical  tone  which  Constance 
needed.  "You'll  never  regret  it.  She'll  be  a  com- 
fort to  you." 

"I  feel  sure  of  it."  Constance  leaned  over  the 
baby,  smoothing  the  light  blanket.  "What  a  darling 
'ittie  bittie  one!"  She  sat  down.  "But  there's 
something  that  I  want  to  talk  over  with  you, 
Sally." 


246  SUPPORT 

"What  is  it?"  Mrs.  Rathvon  pulled  out  her 
crocheting  on  her  knee. 

"I've  decided  that  I  can't  live  at  home  any  longer." 
Constance  brought  the  words  out  with  an  effort,  even 
in  the  face  of  Sally's  assured  sympathy. 

Sally  did  not  look  surprised.  "I  know,"  she  said. 
"I've  wondered  how  long  you  would  stand  it.  What 
I  mean  is,"  she  hurried  to  say,  "that  a  mature  woman 
needs  her  own  home,  and  after  she's  had  one,  she 
can't  live  in  another  person's  home — no  matter 
what  it  is." 

"I  could  have  stood  it,  I  think,"  Constance  re- 
plied, "if  it  weren't  for  Suzanne.  It's  different,  now 
that  she's  there — or  it's  more  unbearable." 

"They  don't  want  her,"  said  Sally. 

"They  aren't  very  keen.  It  isn't  that  they  have 
anything  in  particular  against  her."  Constance 
went  on.  "It's  just  that  they  don't  want  me  to 
burden  myself  in  that  way,  and  they  don't  want  a 
child  around  the  house." 

Sally  meditated,  taking  slow  stitches  in  her  white 
wool.  "I  don't  know  that  you  can  blame  your 
mother,"  she  said.  "She's  brought  up  her  own  fam- 
ily, and  she's  had  a  rather  hard  time  of  late  years, 
or  thinks  she  has;  and  I  suppose,  too,  that  she  is 
afraid  that  Suzanne  will  subtract  something  from  the 
money  that  you  would  otherwise  give  to  the  family. 
It  takes  something  to  support  a  child." 

"Yes.  It  does."  Constance  slapped  the  palm  of 
her  hand  nervously  with  her  gloves.  "Nobody  real- 


SUPPORT  247 

izes  that  better  than  I  do.    But  I  have  a  right  to 
my  child.    Don't  you  think  I  have?" 

"You  don't  need  to  ask."  Sally  looked  toward  the 
crib,  where  her  own  child  was  sleeping.  After  a 
pause  she  said,  "So  you  think  you'll  take  Suzanne 
and  go?" 

"I  haven't  said  that,"  Constance  corrected  her. 

"But  isn't  that  what  you  meant?" 

"It  probably  is.  But  I  haven't  got  to  the  end  of 
what  I  wanted  to  talk  over.  I  can't  stay  at  home; 
and  I  can't  go  on  taking  money  from  Frank,  either. 
I  can't  be  dependent  on  him  any  longer." 

"Do  your  two  decisions  go  together?"  Sally 
raised  her  eyebrows  inquiringly. 

"I  don't  know."  Constance's  tone  was  dogged. 
"In  one  way  they  do.  They're  both  declarations  of 
independence.  But  of  course  you  mean,  can  I  start 
out  for  a  home  of  my  own  without  Frank's  money? 
I  was  coming  to  that.  I  must  get  something  to  do, 
so  that  I  can  earn  my  living." 

Sally  was  thoughtful.  "Of  course  you  can  earn 
your  living,  Connie,  at  some  sort  of  job.  But  can 
you  earn  enough  to  keep  yourself  and  Suzanne  in  a 
dignified  way,  and  still  contribute  to  the  support  of 
your  father  and  mother — as  I  know  you  want  to  do?" 

Constance  groaned,  though  she  permitted  herself 
to  laugh,  too,  at  the  exact  statement  of  her  problem. 
"It's  absurd  to  think  that  I  could  go  out  and  earn 
as  much  as  Frank  is  sending  me.  I  couldn't — no 
matter  what  sort  of  job  I  could  get;  I  mean,  with 
my  preparation  and  training.  It  takes  years  to 


248  SUPPORT 

work  up  into  a  profession;  and  anything  that  would 
bring  an  immediate  return  would  be  inadequate." 

Sally  nodded.  "You're  not  used  to  scrimping, 
Connie." 

"Perhaps  not.  But  I  could  scrimp  if  I  had  to. 
I  could  get  along  on  a  little.  Of  course,  I'd  want 
Suzanne  to  have  what  she  needed." 

"That's  just  it,"  Sally  confirmed  her  remark. 
"One  hates  to  deny  anything  to  one's  children." 

Constance  got  up  and  walked  about  the  room, 
stopping  to  lean  over  the  child  in  the  crib.  "I  feel 
that  I've  got  to  come  to  a  definite  decision,"  she  said. 
"I  can't  dally  along.  I  must  tell  Frank's  lawyer  that 
I  don't  want  the  money  any  more." 

"He'll  think  you're  going  to  marry  again,"  said 
Sally  significantly.  "How  about  it,  Connie?  Have 
you  taken  that  into  consideration?" 

"No,"  Constance  rejoined.  "I  can't  very  well.  I 
feel  that  I  have  to  act  alone.  If  it  turns  out  that 
I  marry  again — all  well  and  good.  But  I  can't  count 
on  it,  and  I  can't  delay  while  I'm  waiting  for  it." 

"How  does  Alison  feel  about  your  taking  Su- 
zanne?" asked  Sally,  with  apparent  irrelevance. 

Constance  grew  crimson.  She  had  not  meant  to 
draw  Sharland  into  the  discussion.  She  turned  to 
the  window  to  hide  her  face  from  her  friend.  "He 
doesn't  like  it,"  she  said  unwillingly.  "Did  you 
think  he  would?" 

"From  what  I  know  of  him — no,  I  shouldn't  think 
he  would,"  Sally  answered.  Her  tone  suggested  that 
she  might  say  a  good  deal  more. 


SUPPORT  249 

"Well,  to  return  to  my  prospects  of  earning 
money,"  said  Constance,  "I've  gone  over  every- 
thing, I  think.  Teaching:  I  don't  like  it,  and  they 
don't  want  me  here.  Stenography:  I'd  have  to  take 
a  lot  of  time  to  learn,  and  then  it  wouldn't  pay  very 
well.  Office  work  of  any  kind:  There  isn't  much 
opportunity  here,  and  it  doesn't  pay,  either,  unless 
one  works  up.  There's  my  needlework,  which  you 
think  so  highly  of,"  she  continued,  "but  I  can't  see 
how  I  could  live  on  it,  much  less  support  anyone 
else." 

Mrs.  Rathvon  bit  her  lip,  thinking.  "It  would  be 
precarious.  And  yet — "  She  waited  for  Constance 
to  formulate  her  declaration. 

"And  yet — I'm  going  to  give  up  my  allowance, 
just  the  same." 

"It's  rash,"  warned  Sally.  There  was  an  exult- 
ant light  in  her  eye. 

"I  know  it.  It's  rash.  That's  why  I  must  do  it." 
Constance  set  her  teeth. 

"You  mean  you're  willing  to  make  it  hard,"  said 
SaUy. 

"Yes.    I  don't  ask  that  it  should  be  made  easy." 

"It  won't  be,"  prophesied  Sally,  with  a  grim  look 
on  her  plump,  unlined  face.  "I  glory  in  your  cour- 
age, Connie." 

Constance  sat  down  limply.  "You  haven't  seen 
me  take  my  stand  yet,"  she  said.  "Talk  is  easy — 
but  action  is  something  different." 

"You'll  come  out  all  right."  Sally  was  crochet- 
ing swiftly  now.  She  was  ostentatiously  cheerful. 


250  SUPPORT 

"You  have  a  little  money  ahead,  haven't  you,  dear?" 
"A  little."     Constance  did  not  like  to  say  that 
Wilbur  had  it.     "I  could  get  along  on  it  for  a  while 
if  I  had  to." 

"That's  good."  Sally's  face  expressed  approval. 
"Keep  your  courage  up.  I'm  sure  you'll  manage 
somehow." 

Constance  began  buttoning  her  coat.  "I  must  go 
home,"  she  said.  "Suzanne  will  be  waking  up,  and 
I  hate  to  ask  mother  to  look  after  her.  I  feel  clari- 
fied, my  dear  Sally.  I  think  I'll  manage."  She 
kissed  her  friend,  and  went  out  into  the  cold  with  a 
feeling  that  there  were  good  things  ahead,  and  that 
she  could  find  them. 

6 

That  evening,  after  she  had  put  Suzanne  to  bed, 
she  went  out,  with  some  library  books  under  her  arm. 
In  reality,  she  was  going  to  the  telegraph  office.  She 
sent  a  night  message  to  Frank's  lawyer  in  New  York : 

Tell  Mr.  Moffatt  I  do  not  wish  any  more  money. 

She  thriftily  reduced  her  words  to  ten.  "I'll  have 
to  be  careful,  now,"  she  said.  She  went  home,  buoy- 
ant as  on  the  night  that  she  had  taken  Suzanne. 
One  always  feels  so,  she  reflected,  when  one  has  made 
a  decision  after  long  vacillation.  She  knew  that  she 
was,  in  all  likelihood,  preparing  for  herself  the  hard- 
est struggle  she  had  ever  had  to  meet;  yet  she  was 
hopeful,  animated,  almost  gay.  She  knew  that  she 


SUPPORT  251 

might  have  to  cut  her  expenditures  down  to  a  nig- 
gardly limit,  live  narrowly  and  cheaply  and  selfishly, 
without  ease  or  scope.  But  she  knew  she  could  da 
all  that  without  complaining,  if  only  she  achieved 
her  spiritual  freedom.  Much  harder  to  bear  would 
be  the  assailings  of  criticism  and  condemnation  from 
those  who  thought  that  they  could  order  her  life  with 
more  wisdom  and  foresight  than  she  could  herself. 

That  was  one  point  of  defense :  Had  they  done  so 
well  and  wisely  that  they  could  afford  to  say  what 
she  should  do?  (She  remembered  that  Rose  had 
used  this  same  defense.) 

There  was  her  father :  He  had  acted  indiscreetly, 
in  tunes  past,  been  involved  in  an  unpleasant  affair 
with  a  woman — an  affair  which  had  been  hastily 
hushed  up.  He  had  had  a  good  business  and  had 
made  a  little  money,  but  had  bungled  it  at  the  last, 
lost  his  prosperity,  yielded  to  the  suggestions  of  old 
age,  given  up  his  endeavors,  and  settled  down  to  in- 
activity and  semi-dependence.  He  had  not  endeared 
himself  to  his  family,  or  acquired  any  vital  friend- 
ships. He  certainly  was  not  happy,  nor  did  he  con- 
tribute much  to  the  happiness  of  others. 

Her  mother,  a  good  woman  in  her  way,  had  mud- 
dled along  through  a  difficult  life,  without  making 
a  conspicuous  success  of  her  career  as  a  wife  and 
mother.  In  her  present  state  of  fear  and  confusion, 
she  was  not  a  fair  judge  of  the  conduct  of  others. 

Wilbur  was  not,  either  in  character  or  financial 
attainments,  a  model  for  the  world.  As  the  Super- 
intendent of  Schools  in  a  small  Middle-Western 


252  SUPPORT 

town,  he  was  entitled  to  only  a  modest  degree  of 
reverence.  Constance  refused  to  let  her  mind  rest 
upon  Eleanor,  who  was,  perhaps,  not  sufficiently  a 
member  of  the  family  to  count. 

Rose  was  too  young  to  judge,  yet  she  was  now  in  a 
fair  way  to  ruin  her  own  life  through  sheer  perver- 
sity. 

No.  Her  family,  Constance  was  well  convinced, 
had  not  done  any  better  than  she  had.  Their  par- 
ticular blunders  had  not  been  hers,  but  they  had 
proved  their  capacity  for  plenty  of  their  own.  So 
far  as  she  could  see,  they  were  not  endowed  with 
any  supernatural  wisdom  which  would  justify  them 
in  regulating  her  behavior  in  life.  She  would  have 
to  make  her  own  decisions  and  abide  by  them,  enjoy 
or  suffer  regardless  of  what  other  people  thought  or 
said.  She  would  have  to  express  her  own  individu- 
ality, make  her  own  success  or  failure,  live  according 
to  her  own  judgment,  whether  right  or  wrong. 

The  first  thing  was  to  decide  on  some  way  of  earn- 
ing money,  and  go  into  it  immediately.  The  next 
was  to  get  back  her  few  hundreds  from  Wilbur,  and 
use  the  money  to  tide  her  over,  until  she  had  estab- 
lished herself  in  some  position  whence  the  necessi- 
ties of  life  should  come.  In  the  meantime,  she  would 
refrain  from  publishing  the  fact  that  she  had  repu- 
diated the  income  which  afforded  to  her  family  a 
minimum  of  comfort  and  security. 


CHAPTER  XII 


CONSTANCE  was  walking  along  one  of  the  main 
streets  in  Blanchard,  her  mind  concentrated  on  the 
questions  which  she  must  inevitably  settle.  She  was 
conscious  that  she  was  frowning,  that  her  face  was 
contracted  into  unsightly  lines.  She  stopped  in 
front  of  a  window,  to  catch  her  own  reflection,  loos- 
ening the  hard  wrinkles  in  her  forehead  and  around 
her  mouth.  Then  she  glanced  at  the  articles  in  the 
window  before  which  she  was  standing.  It  belonged 
to  a  china  store — the  only  one  in  Blanchard.  The 
dishes  were  huddled  on  the  window  shelf  as  if  there 
had  been  an  attempt  to  bring  everything  possible 
into  the  public  eye.  Piles  of  plates,  cups,  platters, 
tureens,  goblets,  and  yellow  kitchen  bowls  were  dis- 
played together.  "That  isn't  right,"  said  Constance 
to  herself.  "If  they'd  crowd  things  less — put  in  a 
few  things  and  show  those  off — they'd  have  a  more 
interesting  window  and  attract  more  customers." 

She  walked  on,  glancing  into  the  windows  which 
she  passed.  "I'd  like  to  have  a  shop,"  she  said  half- 
aloud.  "I  should,  really.  I  should  love  it.  What 
kind  of  shop?"  she  asked  herself.  "Why,  obviously, 
an  'art  shop' — a  'gift  shop.'  I've  always  wanted 

253 


254  SUPPORT 

one.  Always.  I've  been  mad  to  have  one — and 
why  shouldn't  I?" 

She  stopped  short  in  the  street,  excited,  breathing 
hard.  "I  believe  that's  the  solution,"  she  said. 

People  were  looking  at  her.  She  pretended  to  be 
searching  for  something  in  her  handbag,  and  went  on. 
"Other  women  have  done  it,"  she  told  herself. 
"They  have  succeeded.  Why  shouldn't  I  succeed?" 
She  hurried  with  her  errands.  She  wanted  to  get 
home  and  think.  At  home,  she  found  callers — Mrs. 
Clarges  and  Mrs.  Crow.  She  was  glad  to  see  them, 
but  she  could  not  keep  her  mind  on  what  they  were 
saying.  A  gift  shop — that  was  the  thing.  There 
wasn't  any  in  Blanchard — not  a  real  one.  The  book 
store  had  a  few  calendars,  book  ends,  desk  fittings, 
pen  trays,  and  such  things.  The  department  stores 
had  "art"  departments.  But  there  was  need  of  a 
really  good  little  shop,  with  a  lot  of  attractive  things 
in  it,  moderately  priced.  She  must  be  the  one  to 
start  it.  She  was  suddenly  in  a  panic  lest  someone 
else  should  be  devising  the  same  thing,  and  should 
get  in  ahead  of  her.  She  was  uneasy  on  the  sofa 
where  she  was  chatting  with  the  visitors.  She  loved 
Mrs.  Clarges,  and  wished  to  do  her  honor,  but  the 
idea  of  the  shop  was  a  winning  rival  to  the  stout, 
kindly  lady  in  the  big  chair.  "I've  got  to  telephone 
Sally,"  Constance  was  thinking.  As  soon  as  the 
callers  had  gone,  she  rushed  out  to  the  Public  Li- 
brary, where  there  was  a  public  telephone.  She  did 
not  w-nt  to  use  the  home  telephone,  lest  her  family 
should  hear  what  she  was  saying. 


SUPPORT  255 

"Oh,  Sally!"  she  gasped,  when  she  had  brought 
Mrs.  Rathvon  to  the  telephone. 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  asked  Sally. 

"I've  got  the  idea — I  know  what  I'm  going  to  do." 

"What,  what?"  answered  Sally.  "Owen,  don't 
pull  my  dress  like  that.  Excuse  me,  Connie.  Owen 
was  bothering  me.  What's  your  idea?" 

"I'm  going  to  have  an  art  shop — a  gift  shop,"  cried 
Constance,  eager  to  hear  what  Sally  thought  of  the 
project. 

"A  gift  shop."  Sally  considered.  "Well,  it  sounds 
fine.  I  believe  it's  a  right  idea,  Constance.  There 
isn't  a  real  one  here,  and  with  all  the  students " 

"Yes,  that's  what  I  thought,"  Constance  broke  in 
eagerly,  her  words  tumbling  over  each  other.  "If  I 
had  it  along  in  between  Deacon  Street  and  Sharland 
Avenue,  I'd  catch  the  student  trade  and  the  town 
trade,  too.  There's  a  big  enough  population  who 
like  nice  things  to  support  a  shop,  isn't  there?  I'm 
surprised  that  it  hasn't  been  tried  before." 

"It  has,  really,"  said  Sally.  "You  weren't  here. 
A  Miss  McGeehan  or  something  started  one,  but  she 
had  it  away  over  on  Thompson  Street,  in  the  lower 
story  of  a  house,  and  her  things  were  too  high- 
priced,  and  then  she  got  sick  and  had  to  give  it  up. 
That  was  about  a  year  ago." 

"I  didn't  know,"  replied  Constance.  "Well,  it's 
time  someone  tried  again.  But  of  course  it's  getting 
a  little  late  in  the  year." 

"I  don't  think  that  makes  any  difference,"  Sally 
made  answer.  "I  mean  there  is  a  good  deal  of  the 


256  SUPPORT 

college  year  left  yet,  and  then  there  are  the  summer 
school  students — nearly  as  many  as  in  the  rest  of 
the  year,  and  they  have  more  money,  as  a  rule ;  and 
then  there  are  the  resorters  that  come  from  the 
South.  They  would  buy  things.  And  then  there's 
the  regular  town  trade,  for  weddings  and  birthdays 
and  holidays;  and  the  people  who  pick  up  things 
that  they  like  when  they  see  them.  I  believe  you're 
on  the  right  track,  Connie.  But  how  about  the 
financial  side?  Have  you  money  enough  to  begin 
with?" 

"I  think  I  have  enough.  »That  is,  I  let  someone 
take  it,  but  I  can  get  it  back."  Constance  hoped  she 
could.  "It's  enough  to  make  a  beginning,  I  feel 
sure." 

"That's  fine,"  cried  Sally  heartily.  "You  want  to 
get  at  it,  right  away.  Owen,  don't  pull  so.  The 
sooner  the  better." 

"Yes,  I  know.    Oh,  Sally!     I'm  so  excited!" 

"So  am  I.  Owen,  you  drive  me  distracted."  Mrs. 
Rathvon's  voice  became  muffled  as  she  turned  to 
admonish  her  son. 

"Well,  good-by,"  said  Constance,  not  wishing  to 
hold  her  friend  any  longer  at  the  telephone.  "I'll 
let  you  know  later  how  I  get  on  with  it." 

"Yes,  don't  keep  me  in  suspense." 

Constance  hurried  back  to  the  house,  to  give  Su- 
zanne her  supper.  Her  thoughts  were  full  of  her 
new  plan.  She  was  troubled  about  the  little  girl. 
"But  I  think  I  could  have  her  with  me  most  of  the 
time,"  she  assured  herself. 


SUPPORT  257 

At  dinner  Rose  said,  "What  makes  you  look  so 
queer,  Connie?" 

"Nothing,"  the  older  sister  responded.  "I  just 
had  an  idea,  that's  all." 

"Have  one  again,  sometime,"  Rose  teased  her. 
"It's  becoming."  Constance  felt  that  her  eyes  were 
bright  and  her  cheeks  red  with  the  emotions  which 
her  project  had  aroused.  She  could  not  sleep  that 
night  for  thinking.  She  held  her  arm  around  Su- 
zanne, and  lay  awake,  planning,  fearing,  exulting. 
She  thought  how  she  had  always  loved  looking  in  at 
the  windows  of  "little  shops"  in  New  York,  around 
the  Forties;  and  how  she  had  studied  the  wares  at 
Ovington's  and  Vantine's  and  Wanamaker's  Au  Qua- 
trieme ;  and  explored  all  sorts  of  holes  and  corners  in 
Greenwich  Village;  and  rummaged  in  antique  shops 
in  dozens  of  New  England  towns.  She  had  read 
numberless  books  on  old  furniture  and  china  and  sil- 
ver and  fabrics  and  laces ;  and  had  followed  the  new 
movements  in  craft  work  and  the  reestablishment  of 
old  hand  industries.  She  had  spent  hours  at  the 
Metropolitan  Museum,  verifying  knowledge  acquired 
in  books,  and  comparing  details,  hall-marks,  and  re- 
condite symbols  indicative  of  age  and  periods.  She 
knew  good  things  when  she  saw  them.  She  knew 
colors  and  lines  and  money  values.  She  realized 
triumphantly  that  for  the  last  six  years  she  had  been 
getting  ready  for  this  very  business  which  she  was 
now  proposing — the  turning  over  of  beautiful  and 
distinctive  wares,  through  which  she  could  express 


258  SUPPORT 

what  she  knew  and  loved.    Here  was  an  outlet  for 
her  vitality,  her  education,  and  her  industry. 

"I'll  put  in  my  needlework,  too,"  she  decided.  "I'll 
have  to  work  hard  to  get  anything  done  in  the  be- 
tween-times.  But,  oh !  I  want  to  work  hard.  It  will 
keep  my  mind  off  myself,  and  just  leave  enough  for 
Suzanne." 


In  the  morning,  leaving  Suzanne  at  Sally's,  with 
Gladys  and  Owen,  she  went  out  to  find  her  place. 
She  discovered  it  before  long — a  little  empty  one- 
story  building,  a  relic  of  the  earlier  days,  crowded  in 
between  a  grocery  store  and  a  moving-picture  thea- 
ter. The  signs  of  a  departing  tenant  were  still  in  the 
window.  The  world  was  informed  that  Samuel 
Sokoloff,  Tailor,  had  moved  to  a  more  impressive 
address.  A  fresh  For  Rent  sign  hung  above  this 
announcement.  The  shop  was  unattractive  in  ap- 
pearance. It  needed  paint,  clean  windows,  a  bright- 
ness showing  through  the  glass.  But  it  would  un- 
questionably do.  The  rent  would  not  be  large. 
Peering  in,  Constance  saw  that  it  was  heated  by  a 
coal-stove,  now  not  functioning.  An  arched  door- 
way revealed  an  inner  room  of  good  dimensions, 
with  a  high  back  window  letting  in  sunshine  and  a 
glimpse  of  an  ice-encrusted  tree.  Again  she  had  a 
moment  of  panic  lest  someone  should  snatch  her 
treasure  from  her.  She  forced  herself  to  think. 
She  must  not  be  precipitate.  Too  much  depended 


SUPPORT  259 

on  her  judgment.     She  must  above  all  things  be 
cautious. 

The  moving-picture  house  was  propitious.  People 
standing  in  line  for  a  performance  would  have  her 
windows  within  their  view.  But  there  was  more  to 
be  taken  into  consideration.  She  had  read  some- 
where that  before  deciding  on  a  place  of  business, 
you  should  count  the  people  who  went  by  it  within 
a  given  time,  and  thus  calculate  your  prospects  of 
trade.  The  idea  was  not  a  bad  one.  She  stationed 
herself  at  the  entrance  of  the  grocery  store,  as  if  she 
were  waiting  for  someone,  and  counted.  The  toll 
was  surprising.  She  crossed  the  street  to  a  car- 
station,  and  watched  for  a  long  time,  still  counting. 
The  sort  of  people  who  passed  were  college  students, 
many  of  them  obviously  the  offspring  of  prosperous 
fathers  in  up-state  towns;  and  townspeople  who 
were  of  the  kind  who  would  have  money  hi  their 
purses.  Blanchard  was  a  city  of  homes,  where  there 
were  few  persons  actually  poor.  Still  forcing  her- 
self to  caution,  Constance  went  back  to  Sally's  and 
brought  Suzanne  home  for  lunch. 

"Any  luck?"  asked  Sally  at  the  door. 

"I  think  so."  Constance  was  not  ready  to  pro- 
claim a  decision.  In  the  afternoon,  she  went  down 
again,  and  was  again  impressed  with  the  result  of 
her  counting.  "I  couldn't  do  better.  I  know  that," 
she  said.  "I  mean,  for  what  the  price  is  likely  to  be, 
and  for  my  small  beginning."  She  walked  over  to 
the  shop,  and  tried  the  door.  It  opened,  and  the 
owner  of  the  place  came  out  from  the  next  room, 


260  SUPPORT 

where  he  had  been  "straightening  up,"  after  the  de- 
parture of  the  tailor.  There  were  shallow  shelves 
and  a  cupboard  along  the  sides  of  the  front  room; 
and  the  back  room  had  a  sink  in  the  corner,  with 
faucets  for  running  water. 

The  proprietor  was  an  old  man  whom  she  remem- 
bered having  seen  in  her  previous  years  in  Blan- 
chard,  though  she  did  not  know  who  he  was.  "The 
shop  isn't  rented  yet,  is  it?"  she  asked  him. 

He  took  off  his  hat,  disclosing  a  bald  head.  "No, 
not  yet,"  he  replied,  and  put  his  hat  back  on  again, 
for  the  room  was  cold. 

"How  much  do  you  want  for  it?"  Constance  her- 
self was  rejoicing  that  nobody  had  snatched  the 
place  away  from  her. 

"Thirty-five  dollars,"  he  said,  staring. 

The  sum  seemed  paltry,  after  New  York  rents. 
"That's  without  heat?"  she  inquired,  wondering 
whether  she  appeared  business-like,  or  whether  she 
revealed  her  inexperience. 

"Yes.  The  tenant  furnishes  his  own  coal."  The 
old  man  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  still 
staring. 

"I'll  take  it,"  said  Constance.  In  her  mind,  she 
saw  the  place  warm  and  clean,  with  fresh  paint,  gay 
chintz  curtains,  and  a  profusion  of  fascinating  ob- 
jects dull  and  bright.  "It's  cheap  enough,"  she  was 
repeating  mentally. 

"You  mean  you — yourself?"  The  old  man  sur- 
veyed her  modish  clothing  and  smart  hat,  with  a 
mystified  air.  "What  do  you  want  it  for?"  he  asked. 


SUPPORT  261 

"A  shop,"  Constance  answered  with  assurance, 
though  she  had  a  wild  fear  that  he  was  going  to 
refuse  to  rent  to  her.  "A  gift  shop.  Ill  take  it  for 
six  months,  if  you'll  let  it  go  for  that  length  of 
time." 

"I'd  rather  rent  it  for  a  year,"  said  the  owner  eva- 
sively. 

"I'll  pay  a  month's  rent  in  advance,  of  course," 
said  Constance.  "And  I'll  sign  a  lease  and  give  you 
all  sorts  of  references."  She  pulled  her  check-book 
out  of  her  bag.  "I'll  give  you  an  advance  payment 
now  if  you  like." 

The  old  man  put  up  his  hand.  "Wait,  wait,"  he 
said.  "Not  so  fast,  my  dear  young  lady.  You'll 
want  to  look  at  the  lease  first."  With  maddening 
deliberation  he  got  a  battered  leather  bag  from  the 
other  room,  and  took  out  some  papers,  sorting  out 
a  long  folded  sheet,  which  he  held  out  before  him  at 
arm's  length,  peering  at  it  over  his  glasses.  Con- 
stance stood  first  on  one  foot  and  then  on  the  other. 
"What  kind  of  a  shop  did  you  say  you  was  going  to 
have?"  he  asked  again. 

"A  gift  shop — little  things  for  presents,  you 
know."  It  didn't  sound  as  substantial  as  "A  tailor 
shop"  or  "A  butcher  shop"  would  have  sounded,  she 
had  to  admit. 

He  looked  puzzled.  "Well,  I  hope  it  isn't  some 
wild  new-fangled  scheme,"  he  said  doubtfully.  "It 
sounds  odd." 

"You'll  get  your  rent,"  Constance  promised  him. 
"If  you  don't,  you  can  sue  me,  you  know." 


262  SUPPORT 

"Suing  isn't  much  good,"  he  mumbled.  "You're 
probably  all  right,  but  I  don't  like  renting  to 
women." 

"Women  have  to  have  their  chance,"  Mrs.  Moffatt 
returned.  "And  anyhow,  everybody  knows  us  here 
— all  the  old  families,  I  mean.  I'm  Mr.  Fred  Fen- 
ton's  daughter." 

The  old  man  took  off  his  hat  again.  "Oh !  Fred 
Fen  ton's  daughter!  Is  that  so?  Well,  well.  Mr. 
Fenton  used  to  have  an  insurance  business  in  the 
Redfield  Building.  Lived  here  a  long  time.  I  guess 
you're  all  right."  He  put  the  lease  into  her  hands 
to  read. 

"Do  you  want  to  look  up  some  references?  Call 
up  Professor  Clarges  at  the  college — he's  known  me 
for  years.  Or  call  up  Mr.  Foster,  of  the  Foster 
Hardware  Company — or " 

The  man  interrupted  her.  "Oh,  no!  it's  all  right, 
I  guess.  Here,  you  look  over  the  lease,  and  I'll  fill 
it  in,  and  you  can  pay  me  a  month's  rent.  The  truth 
is,  I  want  to  get  shut  of  this  business,  so's  my  wife 
and  I  can  start  out  on  a  visit  to  our  oldest  son,  down 
in  Saint  Louie.  She's  got  her  trunk  all  packed,  and 
we'd  'a'  got  off  before  this,  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
rentin'  this  place,  and  one  or  two  other  little  things 
I've  got  to  attend  to.  I  own  seven  buildings  around 
in  this  district,  and  this  little  place  don't  amount  to 
much,  but  I  like  to  have  it  bringing  in  something." 

Constance  was  trying  to  read  the  terms  of  the 
lease.  The  words  meant  little  to  her,  and  her  ex- 
perience with  leases  for  Tsew  York  apartments  had 


SUPPORT  263 

convinced  her  that  the  advantage  was  always  on  the 
landlord's  side,  anyhow.  After  some  argument,  Mr. 
Lubbock  agreed  to  share  the  expense  of  the  painting, 
and  to  see  that  the  two  rooms  were  thoroughly 
cleaned.  Constance  wrote  out  her  check  for  the 
first  month's  rent,  and  the  lease  was  filled  out  and 
signed.  When  it  came  to  a  question  of  a  witness, 
Constance,  after  some  hesitation,  decided  to  take  the 
document  over  to  Mr.  Foster,  Mary  Foster's  father, 
in  the  office  of  the  Hardware  Company,  and  ask  him 
to  vouch  for  her  signature;  which  he  did  with  a 
quizzical  air,  as  of  one  who  humors  a  pretty  woman 
in  a  foolish  procedure. 

As  she  tucked  her  copy  of  the  lease  into  her  muff, 
it  occurred  to  her  that  every  business  venture  is  a 
drama,  a  thrilling  one  to  the  principal  in  the  play. 
She  went  to  see  a  painter  and  to  order  coal,  with  a 
feeling  of  vast  importance.  What  she  was  under- 
taking was  a  small  affair,  judged  by  most  standards, 
but  to  her,  it  involved  not  only  her  actual  support, 
but  the  prosperity  and  comfort  of  others,  and  her 
own  peace  of  mind  and  independence.  She  could 
not  resist  calling  Sally  on  the  telephone,  to  share  her 
jubilation  in  the  beginnings  of  her  commercial  ac- 
tivity. Also  she  bought  materials  for  some  needle- 
work, and  began  making  a  lunch-cloth  with  cro- 
cheted corners,  and  a  cross-stitched  tray  cloth,  as 
samples  of  what  the  public  might  expect  to  discover 
in  her  miracle-working  shop.  She  did  not  take  her 
family  into  her  confidence,  postponing  their  com- 
ments till  she  felt  surer  of  herself,  and  till  the  details 


264  SUPPORT 

of  her  financial  backing  should  have  been  worked 
out. 


She  called  Wilbur  up  on  the  long  distance  tele- 
phone, and  asked  if  she  might  see  him.  He  was  at 
first  alarmed,  lest  some  accident  had  happened  at 
home,  but  became  difficult  when  he  discovered  that 
no  catastrophe  had  caused  her  eagerness  to  consult 
him.  "Why  can't  you  tell  me  over  the  'phone?"  he 
demanded  with  impatience. 

"Because  I  want  to  talk  to  you  privately,"  she 
said. 

"I  can't  think  what  about,"  he  grumbled.  She 
suspected  that  he  could  think  if  he  wanted  to.  At 
last  he  consented  to  come  down  from  Caryville  on  a 
train  which  arrived  at  four-eight.  He  could  go  back 
on  the  four-thirty-two,  he  said,  and  not  leave 
Eleanor  very  long  alone.  She  was  not  feeling  extra 
well. 

Constance  had  to  take  Suzanne  with  her  to  the 
station,  because  Mrs.  Fenton  was  too  tired  to  look 
after  her,  and  Rose  was  going  out.  When  Wilbur 
got  off  the  train,  he  gave  an  astonished  look  at  the 
little  girl  in  her  pretty  blue  coat  (which  Constance 
had  made  over  from  an  old  one  of  Rose's),  her  white 
tippet  and  white  "kitty"  hood. 

"Well,  Con,"  he  exclaimed,  "I'd  forgotten  for  a 
minute  that  you  had  a  little  girl.  Some  youngster, 
eh?"  He  shook  hands  with  his  sister  and  patted 
the  cheek  of  the  child,  who  looked  up  at  him  shyly, 


SUPPORT  265 

ready  to  smile.  Wilbur  sincerely  liked  children,  and 
in  spite  of  everything,  he  had  "a  way"  with  them. 
"This  is  your  Uncle  Wilbur,"  he  said.  "Did  you 
know  you  had  an  Uncle  Wilbur?"  Suzanne  nodded 
happily.  Constance  had  tried  to  impress  Suzanne 
with  an  idea  of  belonging  to  the  Fentons  by  rela- 
tionship. "She  is  a  nice  little  thing,  isn't  she?"  the 
man  went  on,  over  the  child's  head.  Constance 
thought  he  looked  at  Suzanne  wistfully.  "Wish  we 
had  one."  His  face  clouded. 

"I'm  glad  I  had  the  courage  to  take  her,"  Con- 
stance returned. 

"It  was  reckless  of  you,"  Wilbur  said  with  his 
condemnatory  air.  He  hesitated.  His  better  self 
gained  the  ascendancy.  "But  I'm  sort  of  glad  you 
did,"  he  added  in  an  undertone. 

"I  think  she'll  always  be  a  comfort  to  me,"  Con- 
stance replied.  "You  know — I'm  alone  now, 
Wilbur." 

Wilbur  made  a  gesture  which  indicated  compre- 
hension with  disapprobation.  They  had  been  mov- 
ing toward  the  waiting  room  of  the  station,  and  now 
found  seats  in  a  warm  corner,  near  one  of  the  huge 
gilded  radiators.  Constance  loosened  Suzanne's 
coat,  and  gave  her  a  picture  book  which  she  had 
brought.  Wilbur  looked  at  the  clock  over  the  ticket 
office.  "We  haven't  much  time,"  he  said.  "My 
train  was  a  few  minutes  late.  What  do  you  want 
to  talk  to  me  about,  Connie?"  He  had  now  as- 
sumed his  benevolent  air,  which,  on  the  whole,  Con- 


266  SUPPORT 

stance  thought,  was  more  dangerous  than  the  con- 
demnatory. 

Constance  found  it  difficult  to  begin.  "I've  been 
thinking "  she  began. 

"Don't  think  too  much."  Wilbur  was  trying  to 
be  humorous.  "It  isn't  safe." 

"Well,  I  have  been  thinking,"  Constance  re- 
sponded. "I  couldn't  help  it — about  that  money, 
you  know." 

"Hm,"  said  Wilbur  suspiciously.  "What  about 
it?" 

"I — I'd  like  to  have  it  back,  Wilbur,"  Constance 
brought  out  with  a  timidity  entirely  without  reason. 

Wilbur  made  himself  look  thunderstruck.  "Have 
it  back!"  he  cried.  "Why,  I've  only  had  it  a  month 
or  two." 

"Four  months,"  Constance  corrected  him.  "I 
think  it's  more,  as  a  matter  of  fact." 

"Say  four  months,  then.  When  anyone  lends 
money,  he  doesn't  expect  to  snatch  it  back  in  a  few 
months.  Why,  it's  preposterous.  What's  eating 
you  now?"  he  asked  jocularly.  He  loved  to  use 
slang,  lest  anyone  should  think  him  pedagogic  and 
pedantic. 

"I've  thought  of  a  way  to  use  it,"  Constance  ex- 
plained. She  did  not  want  to  tell  too  much,  for  she 
knew  that  Wilbur  would  be  discouraging.  Yet  why 
did  she  feel  like  a  domestic  servant  asking  a  favor? 

"What  kind  of  a  way?"  Wilbur  inquired.  He  took 
a  pencil  out  of  his  pocket  and  tapped  the  radiator 
with  it. 


SUPPORT  267 

Constance  shivered  nervously.  "I'd  like  to  go  into 
business  for  myself."  She  put  her  hand  over  on 
Suzanne's  shoulder.  The  little  girl  looked  up  and 
smiled  wonderingly,  and  then  went  back  to  her  book. 

"Good  heavens!"  Wilbur  appeared  to  be  over- 
come by  amazement.  He  struggled  to  speak,  hia 
eyes  protruding.  He  was  wearing  round-lensed  horn- 
rimmed glasses.  "Business  for  yourself!"  he  gasped. 
"Then  I  certainly  sha'n't  give  it  back.  You'd  lose 
it  in  two  weeks.  What  kind  of  a  business?"  It 
seemed  hardly  worth  while  to  ask. 

"I  don't  know  that  there's  any  use  in  my  telling, 
if  I'm  not  to  have  a  chance  to  try  it."  There  were 
tears  in  the  woman's  eyes.  She  was  frightened  but 
self -con  trolled. 

"You  needn't  be  so  close-mouthed,"  retorted  Wil- 
bur. "You  might  tell  your  own  brother." 

"No,  I'd  rather  not." 

"Well,  if  I  can't  find  out  anything  about  it,  I  don't 
see  why  I  should  trouble  myself,"  said  Wilbur.  "It's 
my  privilege,  my  duty  as  a  brother,  to  see  that  you 
don't  do  anything  foolish  with  your  money." 

He  was  staring  solemnly.  "Does  he  take  himself 
seriously?"  Constance  asked  herself.  "It  doesn't 
seem  possible.  There's  no  knowing.  People  do." 
She  sighed. 

"You  needn't  sigh  like  that."  Wilbur  used  a  tone 
of  resentment. 

She  did  not  explain  her  sigh.  "Well,  how  about 
it?"  She  tried  to  be  brisk  and  business-like.  "Will 
you  get  me  the  money?" 


268  SUPPORT 

"Absolutely  not.  I'm  not  going  to  be  a  party 
to  your  losing  what  little  you  have,"  he  made  reply. 
"Besides,  it's  tied  up.  I've  paid  it  down  on  the 
house.  I  told  you  that  was  what  I  wanted  it  for." 
He  frowned  with  impatience  at  the  absurdity  of 
women. 

She  turned  her  face  away,  baffled.  But  she  had 
to  make  another  attempt.  "Isn't  there  some  way 
that  you  can  get  the  money?"  she  said  at  last. 
"Can't  you  borrow  it  from  someone  else?" 

"No,"  Wilbur  rejoined  shortly.  He  was  getting 
tired  of  the  discussion.  "I've  used  up  all  my  credit 
and  security  hi  scraping  together  the  money  for  the 
house.  I  can't  borrow  another  cent." 

"You  won't  try?" 

"I  should  say  not.  Absolutively."  Wilbur  liked 
would-be-humorous  perversions  of  words. 

Constance  got  up  and  studied  some  railway 
placards  on  the  wall.  She  was  blinking  to  keep  back 
her  tears,  at  the  same  time  reproaching  herself  for  a 
chicken-hearted  business  woman.  A  man  didn't  cry 
when  he  found  difficulty  in  raising  cash  for  his 
ventures. 

Wilbur  rose  and  stood  beside  her.  "Now,  see  here, 
Connie,"  he  said.  "I  want  to  do  what's  best  for  you. 
It  isn't  myself  I'm  considering.  You're  getting  six 
per  cent  on  your  money.  That's  a  reasonable  re- 
turn." Of  course  no  interest  had  been  paid  as  yet. 
"You'd  be  very  unwise  to  take  any  larger  risks. 
Now,  go  home  and  settle  down,  that's  a  good  girl, 
and  don't  indulge  in  a  lot  of  dreams  about  getting 


SUPPORT  269 

rich  quick."  He  patted  her  on  the  arm.  "I  must 
get  my  ticket." 

He  went  over  to  the  window  and  secured  his 
ticket.  Constance  leaned  over  Suzanne  and  talked 
to  her  about  the  station,  and  the  trains  that  took 
people  a  long,  long  way.  Wilbur  came  back.  He 
looked  troubled  and  suspicious.  "What  is  all  this 
about,  anyway?"  he  queried.  "You  haven't  gone 
and  done  anything  foolish  about  your  alimony,  have 
you?" 

"No.  Not  anything  foolish."  Constance  took 
pleasure  in  being  enigmatic.  She  had  a  wicked 
gleam  in  her  eye. 

"You've  done  something,"  Wilbur  accused  her. 
"I  can  feel  it.  Why  should  you  want  the  money  if 
you  hadn't?" 

"I  said  I  wanted  the  money  to  go  into  business," 
she  returned.  "The  other  doesn't  much  more  than 
support  us,  there  at  home,  you  know." 

"You'd  be  insane  to  give  it  up."  Wilbur  glanced 
at  the  clock.  "My  train'll  be  here  in  a  minute.  I 
don't  know,"  he  said  slowly,  unwilling  to  make  his 
admission,  "but  what  you'd  do  just  as  well  to  marry 
again,  Connie.  You've  got  your  decree  now,  mother 
wrote  me,  and  you're  free.  A  woman  who  has  a  man 
to  look  after  her  is  a  good  deal  better  off.  If  you 
married  a  man  with  some  money,  who  wouldn't  ob- 
ject to  your  helping  your  family  a  little " 

"Oh,  Wilbur,  let's  not  talk  about  it!"  Constance 
had  had  all  she  could  endure.  "I'm  not  thinking 
about  marrying  again." 


270  SUPPORT 

"Why,  mother  has  given  me  to  understand " 

"Your  train  is  coming,"  cried  Constance  desper- 
ately. Her  prospect  of  marrying  again  was  the  last 
thing  she  wanted  to  talk  over  with  Wilbur.  "Don't 
say  anything  about  our  seeing  each  other  just  yet," 
she  begged.  "I've  been  keeping  my  affairs  to 
myself." 

"It's  a  good  thing  to  do,"  Wilbur  conceded.  "No, 
I  won't  tell."  Constance  knew  that  he  would  do  as 
he  agreed.  He  stooped  and  kissed  Suzanne.  "You're 
a  nice  little  girl,"  he  said.  "As  quiet  as  a  mouse  all 
this  time.  I  wish  you'd  bring  her  up  to  see  us, 
Connie,"  he  said,  and  she  knew  he  spoke  sincerely. 
"I'd  like  to  have  her  come.  I  think  Eleanor  would, 
too." 

"Perhaps  I  will,  when  the  spring  comes  on,"  she 
answered  hurriedly.  She  was  buttoning  Suzanne's 
coat.  Her  heart  was  not  quite  bitter  toward  Wilbur, 
because  he  had  praised  her  child.  Wilbur  had  his 
good  points,  and  he  meant  well,  she  admitted.  But 
he  was  not  going  to  give  her  back  her  money.  And 
she  wanted  it;  she  had  to  have  it;  she  couldn't  get 
along  without  it.  She  felt  like  jumping  up  and 
down  and  screaming  as  Wilbur  kissed  her  good-by 
and  got  calmly  on  the  train.  "Sorry  I  couldn't  do 
what  you  asked,"  he  called  from  the  platform. 
"You'll  be  glad  of  it,  later  on." 

The  train  started.  He  waved  at  Constance,  and 
threw  a  kiss  at  Suzanne.  The  little  girl  threw  him 
one  in  return,  with  her  small  mittened  hand.  "He's 


SUPPORT  271 

a  nice  Uncle  Wilbur,"  she  said  brightly,  looking  up 
at  her  foster-mother. 

"I'm  glad  you  like  him,  dear."  Constance  led  the 
child  along  the  platform,  through  the  waiting-room, 
and  out  into  the  street.  Dusk  was  already  descend- 
ing, and  lights  had  begun  to  glow  yellowly  through 
the  cold  blue.  Now  that  Wilbur  had  gone,  Con- 
stance felt  a  sinking  of  despair.  It  had  all  seemed  so 
easy  a  little  while  ago.  Now  her  project  seemed  silly 
and  visionary.  How  did  she  know  that  she  could 
succeed  with  a  shop,  even  if  she  had  one?  And  how 
was  she  going  to  have  one,  now,  without  money? 
She  did  not  know  where  she  could  borrow.  She 
could  not  ask  any  sensible  person  to  lend  her  money 
without  security.  And  it  wasn't  fair  that  she  should 
have  to  borrow,  when  she  had  enough  of  her  own. 
How  stupid  she  had  been  to  let  Wilbur  wheedle  it 
out  of  her!  She  knew  better  at  the  time;  but  it  was 
so  hard  to  refuse  and  so  easy  to  submit.  Well,  she 
had  to  do  something.  She  had  paid  a  month's  rent, 
and  paid  for  coal,  and  had  signed  a  lease.  She  had 
committed  herself.  She  must  go  on.  But  how — 
how?  "I'm  certainly  in  a  hole,"  she  muttered.  "But 
I  won't  cry.  I  can't  break  down  now.  There  must 
be  some  way  of  working  the  thing  out."  She  was 
shaking  with  cold  and  nervousness.  "This  is  our  car, 
darling."  She  lifted  Suzanne,  giving  her  a  pressure 
of  love  as  she  put  her  on  the  car.  "I  don't  care. 
I'm  glad  I've  done  just  as  I  have,"  she  thought 
fiercely.  In  spite  of  the  disasters  which  seemed  im- 
minent, she  was  glad  that  she  had  made  her  decision 


272  SUPPORT 

about  Frank,  and  she  was  glad,  more  glad  than  she 
could  say,  that  she  had  Suzanne. 


She  could  not  go  to  see  Sally  until  the  next  fore- 
noon. Griffith  was  sure  to  be  there  in  the  evening. 
She  went  as  early  as  possible  the  next  day.  Sally, 
in  her  dark  blue  silk  gown  and  lace  fichu,  was  hold- 
ing the  baby  in  her  arms. 

"Well?"  She  inquired  eagerly  as  Constance  came 
in.  "What  has  happened?  How  are  you  getting  on 
with  the  new  shop?"  She  received  Constance's  kiss 
abstractedly.  "It  sounded  perfectly  splendid  over 
the  telephone.  It  seems  wonderful  that  you  should 
have  found  just  the  right  thing." 

Constance  sat  down  and  threw  back  her  fur. 
"Well,  it's  all  gone  to  smash,"  she  said  grimly.  "I 
can't  get  my  money." 

"Can't  get  your  money?"  repeated  Sally.  "I 
thought  you  said  you  had  it." 

"I  said  I'd  lent  it  to  someone,  but  I  supposed  I 
could  get  it  back."  Constance  took  off  her  gloves, 
keeping  her  eyes  down. 

"I  didn't  understand,"  said  Mrs.  Rathvon.  She 
looked  sober.  "Whom  did  you  lend  it  to,  Connie?" 

"Wilbur." 

"Oh!  Wilbur!"  Sally  had  never  been  keen  for 
Wilbur.  "And  now  he  won't  let  you  have  it  again?" 

"He  says  he  can't."  Constance  took  a  piece  of 
crocheting  out  of  her  bag.  Even  though  the  shop 


SUPPORT  273 

seemed  fated  to  vanish,  she  kept  on  with  her  needle- 
work, hoping  that  it  might  find  its  place.  "You  see, 
he's  tied  it  up.  He  borrowed  it  to  help  out  in  the 
first  payment  on  a  house." 

"I  see,"  said  Sally.  "And  he  can't  get  you  any 
of  it?" 

"Not  a  cent.  Absolutively."  Constance  smiled 
ironically,  as  she  quoted  Wilbur's  puerile  humor. 

"Well."  Sally  meditated.  "Can't  you  wrest  it 
away  from  him?" 

Constance  kept  her  eyes  on  her  work.  Her  fingers 
flew  swiftly,  and  her  steel  needle  flashed.  "I  suppose 
I  could,  by  law.  But  one  doesn't  do  that." 

"No.    Did  he  give  you  any  receipt  or  anything?" 

"No.    I  didn't  like  to  ask  for  it." 

"Constance!" 

"Well,  Sally,  that's  the  way  with  money  deals  be- 
tween relatives.  You  don't  do  things  in  the  same 
business-like  way  that  you  would  with  other  people, 
and  then  you  get  sort  of  caught.  You  can't  bring 
any  pressure  to  bear  on  them." 

"That's  true,"  Mrs.  Rathvon  agreed.  "If  you  do, 
they  get  angry,  and  make  you  feel  like  a  beast,  and 
then  you  weaken  and  say  it  doesn't  matter — : — " 

"Exactly." 

"The  moral  is "  said  Sally. 

"The  moral  is  clear,"  Constance  agreed  with  her. 
"But  I'm  in  a  terrible  fix  now.  I  can  sympathize 
with  Mark  Twain,  in  one  of  the  stories  he  wrote. 
He  says,  'I  have  now  got  my  hero  into  such  a  pre- 
dicament that  I  don't  know  how  to  get  him  out;  so 


274  SUPPORT 

I'll  stop  here,  and  leave  the  rest  to  my  reader's 
imagination.'  I  feel  almost  like  stopping  my  story 
altogether,  Sally."  Laughing  miserably,  she  fum- 
bled at  her  work,  and  tears  dripped  into  her  lap. 
She  murmured  an  apology  as  she  wiped  them  away. 

"Nonsense!"  Sally  was  sprightly  and  markedly 
unsympathetic.  "You  don't,  either.  You  know  you 
were  never  so  keen  for  the  game." 

"Perhaps."  Constance  was  dubious.  "I  suppose 
there  is  some  way  out.  There  never  was  a  problem 
without  an  answer,  was  there?" 

"Never."  Sally  was  decisive.  "Now,  Connie,  this 
is  the  solution :  I'll  let  you  have  the  money." 

"Sally,  dear!"  Constance  threw  down  her  work, 
electrified.  "What!  Oh,  no!  I  don't  think  we'd 
better — I  didn't  know " 

"I  have  some  Liberty  bonds.  I  bought  a  few  my- 
self, and  Griffith  gave  me  a  hundred-dollar  one,  and 
there  is  a  little  more  here  and  there  that  I  can  get 
hold  of.  You  know  mother  sends  me  something 
once  in  a  while,  and  I  stow  most  of  it  away.  I'm 
saving  it  for  the  children's  education." 

"Oh,  but "  Constance  began. 

"No  but's.  I'm  going  to  lend  it  to  you  until  you 
can  pay  it  back  out  of  your  business,  or  until  you  can 
get  back  what  you  lent  to  Wilbur.  I'm  not  going  to 
have  your  plans  all  smashed  up  like  this."  Sally 
held  her  baby  closer,  and  looked  over  at  her  friend 
with  a  line  of  determination  between  her  eyes. 

"But  I  wouldn't  dare  to  take  it,"  Constance  told 
her.  "It's  for  the  children." 


SUPPORT  275 

"Pooh!  You  aren't  going  to  lose  it,  Connie.  I 
have  more  faith  in  you  than  that,"  said  Sally. 

"I  might  lose  it." 

"You're  not  going  to." 

Constance  sat  a  long  time,  not  looking  at  Sally, 
but  out  through  the  window  at  Emma  and  Gladys 
fastening  a  piece  of  suet  into  a  bush  for  the  snow- 
birds. She  was  not  thinking  about  Emma  and 
Gladys,  but  about  Sally  and  her  money.  Here  was 
unexpected  deliverance.  It  had  never  occurred  to 
her  that  she  could  get  the  needed  sum  from  Sally. 
She  knew  vaguely  that  Sally  had  money  from  her 
mother,  and  she  realized  that  the  Rathvons  could 
not  live  so  easily  as  they  did  (though  with  their 
modesty)  on  the  salary  which  Griffith  received 
from  the  State  College,  even  with  the  addition  of 
his  fees  for  lecture  courses.  If  she  had  thought 
of  it  at  all,  she  had  supposed  that  the  money 
from  Mrs.  Needham  was  used  as  it  came  in.  Good 
old  Sally!  She  was  a  prop  and  stay,  a  supporting 
pillar. 

It  was  a  risk  to  take  another  person's  money  like 
that.  "But  I'm  not  going  to  fail,"  said  Constance 
within  herself.  "I  know  that.  And  even  if  I 
should — which  I'm  not  going  to — there's  always 
what  Wilbur  owes  me.  I  could  eventually  get  it  away 
from  him,  I  suppose.  I'll  take  it,  Sally,"  she  said 
aloud,  with  humility  and  gratitude.  She  went 
and  bent  over  Sally  and  kissed  her,  and  then  she  bent 
lower,  and  kissed  the  baby  on  the  cheek. 

Sally  held  out  her  disengaged  hand.    "Keep  your 


276  SUPPORT 

courage,  Con/'  she  admonished  the  prospective  busi- 
ness woman.  "You'll  come  out  all  right." 

"I'm  sure  of  it."  Constance  hoped  that  she  was. 
"Well,  now,  let  us  come  as  near  to  being  business- 
like as  we  can.  I'll  give  you  a  note " 

"You  needn't,"  said  Sally. 

"But  I  prefer  to." 

"It  might  be  wise,"  Mrs.  Rathvon  conceded,  out 
of  respect  to  her  arraignment  of  Constance  for  not 
taking  a  note  from  Wilbur. 

"And  I'll  give  you  my  solitaire  as  a  pledge,"  Con- 
stance went  on,  twisting  the  ring  on  her  finger, 
"though  it  won't  cover  the  whole  amount." 

Mrs.  Rathvon  made  a  gesture  of  refusal,  but  she 
thought  better  of  it.  "All  right,"  she  said  coolly. 
"Do  that  if  you  like." 

"And  you  know  I  have  some  other  jewelry,"  said 
Constance. 

"Very  well.  We'll  talk  it  over  when  I've  got  the 
money  together.  It's  too  late  to-day.  I  can't  very 
well  go  down  to  the  bank  this  afternoon,  but  I'll  do 
it  to-morrow  forenoon.  And  we  sha'n't  tell  Grif  any- 
thing about  it  just  yet,"  Mrs.  Rathvon  added. 

"It  must  be  as  you  choose,"  said  Constance.  She 
had  hoped  that  Griffith  was  not  to  know. 


Within  the  week  the  money  was  turned  over. 
Constance  gave  her  note  for  the  full  amount,  and 
left  with  Sally  her  solitaire  and  an  opal-and-diamond 
pin.  Sally  took  these  with  reluctance,  giving  a  re- 


SUPPORT  277 

ceipt.  It  was  all  an  attempt  at  formalizing  what 
was  pure  love  and  pure  honesty.  It  served  as  a 
symbol  of  intangible  things. 

Constance  told  her  mother  and  Rose  briefly  what 
she  was  doing,  making  no  mention  of  the  money. 
They  were  in  the  dining-room,  after  dinner.  The 
women  of  the  family  usually  talked  in  the  dining- 
room  if  they  had  anything  private  to  say,  because 
Mr.  Fenton,  in  the  study,  could  usually  catch  what 
was  said  in  the  sitting-room. 

"Mother,  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I'm  launching 
out  into  business,"  said  Constance  with  an  attempt 
to  speak  lightly. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Connie?"  Mrs.  Fenton 
looked  scared. 

"I'm  opening  a  shop,  down  on  Deacon  Street, 
next  to  the  'Moving  .Picture  Palace.'  I  didn't  tell 
you,  because  I  didn't  want  to  bother  you  until  things 
were  pretty  well  arranged." 

"A  shop!  What  in  the  world?"  Mrs.  Fenton 
looked  ready  to  cry  with  apprehension  and  sur- 
prise. 

"A  shop?"  Rose  leaned  forward,  astonished. 
"Why,  Con,  have^you  turned  shopkeeper?  It  sounds 
awfully  jolly.  Is  it  fruit-cakes  or  crocheted 
sweaters?" 

"It  may  be  both,  after  a  while."  Constance  could 
not  help  enjoying  her  importance.  She  told  them 
her  plan — explaining  about  the  location  and  the  rent 
of  the  shop,  and  her  intention  of  filling  it  with  fasci- 
nating wares.  She  waxed  eloquent  on  the  subject 


278  SUPPORT 

of  chiniz  curtains  and  fresh  paint,  and  brass  and 
pottery  and  lacquer  and  embroideries. 

"Dear,  dear,  Connie!"  complained  Mrs.  Fenton, 
puzzled  and  distressed.  "It  seems  like  a  foolish  un- 
dertaking. Aren't  you  afraid  you'll  lose  money  on 
it?  It's  a  good  thing  you  have  some  money  coming 
in,  to  back  you  up." 

Constance  hid  a  guilty  face  by  straightening  the 
things  on  the  sideboard.  Rose  spoke  up  crisply. 
"I'm  glad  you're  doing  it,  Connie,  if  you  aren't  afraid 
you'll  lose  caste.  It'll  be  awfully  interesting,  and 
I'll  say  you  can  do  as  you  please.  I  confess,  I  think 
you're  a  bit  of  a  fool,  not  to  take  life  a  little  easier, 
and  have  a  better  time,  when'  you  can  just  as  well. 
But  after  all,  a  part  of  one's  good  time  is  doing  as 
one  likes." 

"Quite  true,"  Constance  responded,  glad  of  her 
sister's  encouragement.  "And  as  far  as  caste  is  con- 
cerned, so  many  women  are  doing  active  things  now, 
that  people  are  used  to  it.  I'm  not  giving  that  part 
of  it  a  thought."  There  was  one  person,  she  knew, 
who  might  think  she  was  losing  caste;  that  was 
Alison  Sharland.  She  turned  from  his  image  to 
other  things. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  Suzanne?" 
asked  Mrs.  Fenton  in  her  worried  way. 

"I'll  have  her  with  me,"  said  Constance  quickly. 
She  did  not  want  her  mother  to  think  that  Suzanne 
was  to  become  a  household  burden.  "There's  a  nice 
back  room  at  the  shop,  and  it's  warm  and  pleasant. 
She  can  play  there,  and  go  to  sleep  on  a  couch,  and 


SUPPORT  279 

she  will  be  just  as  well — or  nearly  as  well — off  as  she 
is  here." 

"You  seem  to  have  got  it  all  worked  out,"  said 
Rose  dryly.  "I  take  it  that  you're  not  hungering  for 
advice  from  your  family." 

"N-no,"  Constance  returned.  "I  feel  that  I'm 
willing  to  take  the  responsibility  and  do  all  the  suf- 
fering, if  there  is  any  to  be  done.  I'll  have  to  ask 
for  a  little  help,  though.  I've  got  to  go  to  Chicago, 
to  select  my  goods,  and  I'll  have  to  leave  Suzanne 
for  a  day  or  two." 

"I  guess  we  can  manage  to  look  after  her,"  said 
Rose.  Constance  noticed  that  her  mother  said  noth- 
ing. She  sighed,  but  she  knew  nevertheless  that 
Mrs.  Fenton  would  try  hard  to  take  good  care  of 
Suzanne. 

That  evening  and  the  next  day,  Mrs.  Moffatt  was 
busy,  making  out  a  tentative  list  of  her  purchases, 
getting  out  some  chintz  curtains  from  her  boxes  in 
the  attic,  a  rug  and  a  table  cover  for  the  back  room 
of  the  shop;  going  to  the  shop  and  inspecting  it 
(she  had  a  key  now),  and  putting  a  notice  in  the 
shining  window,  to  the  effect  that  "The  Cupboard 
Door  Gift  Shop"  would  occupy  the  premises  at 
no  distant  date.  The  name  was  suggested  to  her 
by  the  big  cupboard  with  long  doors  which  occu- 
pied a  considerable  part  of  one  side  of  the  front 
room. 

She  had  not  heard  from  Frank  or  his  lawyer,  but 
that  fact  was  not  surprising,  considering  the  time 
that  it  took  for  letters  to  come  from  New  York,  and 


280  SUPPORT 

the  possibility  that  one  or  both  of  the  men  might  be 
out  of  town. 

On  the  train,  for  the  five-hour  trip  to  Chicago, 
she  had  plenty  of  leisure  for  thought,  even  though 
she  occupied  her  fingers  with  her  precious  needle- 
work, which  was  to  form  a  substantial  addition  to 
her  merchandise. 

Less  than  six  months  before — in  October,  it  was — 
she  had  come  back  to  Blanchard,  thrilling  with  the 
ecstasy  of  coming  home.  She  had  supposed  her 
problems  solved.  They  had  been  just  beginning. 
How  far  she  had  traveled  since  then!  The  best 
thing  that  had  happened  to  her  was,  of  course,  her 
bold  acquisition  of  Suzanne.  Her  heart  swelled  at 
the  remembrance  of  the  little  face  that  she  had 
kissed  when  she  came  away.  The  most  perplexing 
thing  was  Alison  Sharland.  Her  thoughts  milled 
about  in  the  turgid  stream  of  uncertainty.  Well,  she 
couldn't  bother  about  him  now.  He  probably  wasn't 
bothering  much  about  her.  The  main  consideration 
now  was  going  through  with  this  scheme  of  the  gift- 
shop.  Was  she  a  fool  to  go  hi  for  it?  And  would 
she  be  able  to  combine  common  sense  and  "art"? 
People  appeared  to  think  that  the  two  couldn't  be 
combined.  She  made  up  her  mind  to  restrain  her- 
self from  false  enthusiasms,  and  to  confine  herself 
strictly  to  practical  issues.  She  must  select  wisely, 
not  put  in  too  large  a  stock,  not  have  any  (or  many) 
duplicates,  not  price  things  too  high ;  she  must  keep 
up  her  stock,  too,  so  that  it  would  not  appear  scanty 
or  pathetic,  must  attend  closely  to  business,  must 


SUPPORT  281 

never  neglect  her  accounts.  If  things  went  well, 
she  would  put  in  a  few  books,  after  a  while — choice 
ones,  for  a  discerning  few — a  piece  of  old  mahogany, 
a  length  or  two  of  chintz.  There  were  possibilities 
in  a  shop  like  that.  One  might  enlarge  it — make 
quite  a  good  thing  of  it. 

And  there  was  another  phase  of  the  matter:  "It 
isn't  just  to  make  money,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"though  I  want  support  and  substance,  an  estab- 
lished place  for  Suzanne  and  myself;  it's  the  activity 
of  it,  the  expression  of  qualities  which  one  knows  one 
possesses  or  can  develop — industry,  honesty,  alert- 
ness, independence,  imagination,  the  desire  to  give 
something,  to  do  something  real  and  as  big  as  pos- 
sible, to  count  for  something,  to  give  out  and  take  in, 
to  expand,  rise,  learn  to  be  individual.  This  is  what 
is  more  worth  while  than  money." 

She  pondered :  "How  wise  men  are  to  realize  that 
love  and  marriage  are  the  smaller  parts  of  life.  The 
big  business  of  living  goes  on  just  the  same,  outside 
and  beyond  these  emotional  episodes:  the  business 
of  producing  commodities,  increasing  interchange, 
commanding  the  powers  of  nature;  local  affairs, 
affairs  of  the  world,  religion,  laws,  politics,  conflict 
of  force  with  force.  Women  don't  see  this  truth. 
They  are  mesmerized  by  the  belief  that  all  of  life  is 
concentrated  in  the  so-called  life  of  love,  which  is, 
as  often  as  not,  something  far  less  pretty  than  it 
sounds,  something  made  up  of  greed  and  self-will 
and  strife  and  suffering.  Even  when  it  is  better  than 
that,  it  can't  fill  the  needs  of  an  active  intelligent 


282  SUPPORT 

woman,  any  more  than  it  can  the  needs  of  a  man.  If 
women  were  not  so  hypnotized  by  the  notion  of 
loving  and  being  loved,  how  much  beautiful  electric 
energy  of  the  feminine  mind  and  soul  could  be 
liberated  for  the  world!  This  liberation  is  begin- 
ning. It  will  go  on.  I  will  help  it  to  go  on.  I  will 
give  my  energy  and  activity,  my  health  and  strength 
and  intelligence  and  hope  and  insight.  What  I  do 
may  not  be  much,  but  it  will  be  something.  It  will 
be  an  example.  It  will  be  an  atom  of  freedom  and 
Tightness  and  truth." 

"Pretty  lofty  thoughts  to  flatter  myself  with, 
when  my  great  enterprise  is  only  a  little  one-horse 
gift-shop,"  she  laughed.  "But  I  know,  somehow, 
that  I'm  not  going  to  stop  at  that." 

She  undertook  the  task  of  buying  with  a  courage 
that  surprised  herself.  She  found  a  place  where 
gift-shop  wares  could  be  secured  for  sale  on  com- 
mission. She  rummaged  about,  also,  in  department 
stores  and  Oriental  shops,  where  there  were  to  be 
found  odd  bits  of  textiles,  quaint  shapes  of  pottery, 
unusual  fans  and  bags  and  strings  of  beads,  not  too 
expensive,  which  she  could  sell  at  a  profit.  Men- 
tally, she  was  fitting  her  articles  to  the  Blanchard 
pocket.  There  were  some  people  who  had  a  good 
deal  of  money  to  spend,  but  the  majority,  as  in  all 
towns,  possessed  moderate  means  only,  and  could 
not  afford  to  invest  too  much  in  luxuries.  Constance 
carefully  adjusted  most  of  her  purchases  to  this  ma- 
jority, resolutely  rejecting  things  which  appealed 
personally  to  her,  if  they  were  not  likely  to  suit 


SUPPORT  283 

tastes  and  incomes  .in  Blanchard.  In  spite  of  her 
caution  in  the  matter  of  price,  she  was  equally  rigid 
in  casting  aside  anything  cheap  or  tawdry  or  in- 
ferior in  workmanship  or  outline.  Everything,  no 
matter  how  small  or  insignificant,  was  good  of  its 
kind,  making  no  pretensions  to  being  other  than  it 
was.  "Honesty,  honesty,  that's  what  I  want,"  she 
kept  thinking.  Everything  must  be  right  in  color 
and  form  and  workmanship  and  price.  She  had  not 
supposed  that  fitting  her  purchases  to  this  fourfold 
standard  would  give  her  so  much  pleasure.  She  had 
lost  her  fear,  and  experienced  only  the  fascination  of 
her  work.  When  she  had  finished,  she  was  tired  but 
triumphant.  She  went  back  to  Blanchard  well 
pleased  with  this  particular  stage  of  her  adventure. 

6 

At  home  she  found  a  letter  from  Frank's  lawyer, 
formally  acknowledging  the  contents  of  her  tele- 
gram, and  enclosing  one  from  Frank  himself: 

Dear  Connie, 

Stidgers  tells  me  that  you  say  you  don't  want 
any  more  money.  I  should  be  sorry  to  hear  it,  if  it 
were  not  for  my  natural  inference  that  you  are 
marrying  again.  It  is  rather  unexpected,  but  per- 
haps you  have  found  some  old  friend  out  there,  and 
have  consented  to  marry  him.  You  know  I  am  glad 
of  anything  that  makes  you  happy.  Thinking  you 
may  need  a  few  little  things,  I  am  sending  a  check. 
Best  wishes,  Connie. 

As  ever  yours, 

FRANK. 


284  SUPPORT 

The  check  was  for  two  hundred  dollars.  "How 
kind  of  Frank!"  Constance  exclaimed.  He  meant 
well  in  so  many  ways.  Her  first  impulse  was  to 
keep  the  money  for  Suzanne.  But  in  the  end  she 
decided  to  give  it  up.  She  sent  it  back  with  a 
friendly  letter,  saying  that  she  was  not  planning  to 
be  married,  but  that  she  had  concluded  to  begin 
living  independently.  "I  want  to  support  myself," 
she  added,  "and  my  little  girl.  You  will  perhaps  be 
surprised  to  hear  that  I  have  taken  a  child  three 
years  old."  She  felt  better  when  she  had  sent  her 
note,  and  could  apply  herself  again  to  the  work  in 
hand. 

7 

It  would  seem  foolishly  secretive  not  to  tell  Alison 
Sharland  what  she  was  doing.  She  had  seen  him 
once  or  twice  during  these  days  when  her  plans  were 
maturing,  but  she  had  refrained  from  saying  any- 
thing about  her  shop.  Now  when  he  came  to  see 
her,  she  brought  out  her  news.  "I  have  something 
exciting  to  tell  you,"  she  said ;  "I  mean  that  it's  ex- 
citing to  me.  I'm  starting  a  shop." 

She  wished  that  he  would  say,  "Bully  for  you!" 
as  she  had  wished  when  she  had  told  him  about 
Suzanne;  but  she  had  given  up  expecting  such  en- 
couragement from  Alison.  One  had  to  be  satisfied 
with  him  as  he  was.  "A  shop!"  he  repeated  in 
amazement,  as  others  had  repeated.  "What  sort  of 
shop,  may  I  ask?" 

"A  gift  shop.    Down  on  Deacon  Street." 

"Oh!     'The  Cupboard  Door.'    I've  noticed  the 


SUPPORT  285 

sign  when  I've  been  passing,"  he  said.  She  nodded. 
"Must  you  do  it?"  he  asked  in  a  voice  which  would 
have  been  plaintive  if  it  had  been  less  masculine. 

"Yes.  Now  I  must.  I  want  to  do  something  for 
myself,"  she  made  reply.  "And  this  idea  appeals  to 
me.  I've  always  loved  pretty  things — good  ones, 
I  mean.  I've  given  them  a  lot  of  thought.  Now  I 
can  make  use  of  what  I  know  about  them." 

"I  know  you  like  fine  things,"  he  responded; 
"good  lines  and  colors.  You — could  make  an  at- 
tractive home." 

"I'm  sorry  you  didn't  see  my  flat  in  New  York. 
It  was  ever  so  attractive,"  she  answered. 

"I'm  sorry,  too.  But  I  didn't  have  time.  You 
could  make  another  just  as  good,  if  you  had  an 
opportunity."  He  fixed  his  eyes  on  her  thought- 
fully, as  if  appraising  her  own  decorative  value  in  a 
home. 

"Yes."  She  could  make  a  wonderful  home,  she 
knew,  with  freedom  and  money.  The  old  Sharland 
house  would  be  a  charming  place — not  too  much 
modernized,  kept  "in  tone,"  with  the  stuffiness  re- 
moved, and  the  right  atmosphere  and  colors 
introduced. 

"I'm  sorry  you're  going  in  for  a  shop,"  Alison  was 
saying. 

"Why?"    She  felt  humiliated  by  his  disapproval. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  It  will  tie  you  down.  With 
that  and  the  child,  you  can't  do  anything — you'll  be 
a  slave.  And  besides,  it's — it's  not  the  kind  of  thing 
that  you  ought  to  be  doing." 


286  SUPPORT 

"Nonsense!  I'm  not  too  good  for  that,"  she  cried 
impatiently.  "Women  are  doing  that  sort  of  thing 
all  the  time.  Gift  shops  and  candy  shops  and  tea 
rooms  are  the  mildest  of  their  activities." 

"I  know,  but  I  don't  care  for  it.  For  some  women 
it's  all  right,"  he  said,  "but  for  you,  Connie " 

She  waited  for  him  to  go  on,  but  he  did  not  finish. 
"I'm  no  different  from  anyone  else,"  she  said. 

"I've  always  thought  you  were."  His  voice  was 
low,  as  passionate  as  she  had  ever  heard  it. 

Her  heart  began  beating  stormily.  She  hardly 
knew  how  she  was  answering.  "I  have  my  living  to 
make — mine  and  Suzanne's." 

"Why,  how  is  that?  I  thought  you  were  provided 
for,"  he  returned. 

"I  was,  but  I  gave  up  what  I  had,"  she  told  him 
shortly. 

His  face  showed  his  opinion  of  her  wisdom.  "But 
why  did  you  do  that?" 

"I  didn't  want  it.  I  thought  it  over,  and  decided 
that  I  preferred  to  make  my  own  way." 

"It's  a  hard  way  for  a  woman  with  a  child." 
There  was  an  accent  of  bitterness  in  his  voice.  She 
perceived  that  he  had  not  forgiven  her  for  taking 
little  Suzanne. 

"Very  well.  It  will  have  to  be  hard,  then."  Her 
mouth  was  a  close  line  of  determination  and 
defiance. 

"I  think  you're  very  foolish,"  he  said.  "You 
could  be  much  more  comfortable  if  you  would." 


SUPPORT  287 

"I  hoped  you'd  approve."  She  could  not  keep  a 
tremor  out  of  her  voice. 

"My  opinion  doesn't  count  for  so  very  much/'  he 
replied. 

"Yes,  it  does.  You're  one  of  my  old  friends. 
When  one  takes  an  important  step,  the  support  of 
one's  friends  is  encouraging." 

"I  do  support  you,  Connie,  in  a  way,"  he  returned. 
"I  know  you're  trying  to  do  what  is  best.  But  you're 
rash.  You  try  to  do  too  much — to  be  too  independ- 
ent. You  could  live  comfortably,  and  have  some 
leisure  for  enjoyment — and  marry  again,  perhaps." 

Constance  sat  silent.  There  did  not  seem  to  be 
anything  to  say.  If  Alison  did  not  understand  and 
approve  her  actions,  he  didn't,  and  there  was  no  use 
in  trying  to  enlighten  or  persuade  him.  Rose  came 
into  the  room,  in  search  of  a  scarf  which  she  had  left 
on  the  sofa.  She  stopped  to  talk  for  a  few  minutes 
in  her  animated  way;  and  then  Herman  Schelling 
came  to  the  front  door  and  Rose  went  to  let  him  in. 
He  stood  while  she  put  on  her  wraps,  and  they  went 
out.  There  was  no  more  talk  with  Alison  that  eve- 
ning about  either  the  shop  or  Suzanne. 

7 

The  painting  was  done — a  soft  light  gray — the 
curtains  were  up,  making  a  gallant  show  of  sprawl- 
ing flowers  and  long-tailed  birds.  Gray  linen  cur- 
tains with  bands  of  chintz  divided  the  two  rooms. 
A  delivery  boy  from  the  grocery  store  had  consented 
to  look  after  the  coal  stove,  and  he  kept  it  brightly 


288  SUPPORT 

glowing.  The  goods  arrived  from  Chicago,  and 
Constance  unpacked  them  with  girlish  exuberance. 
Each  article  had  in  her  eyes  its  individual  glamor. 

Constance  was  coming  home  at  noon  from  her 
labors  in  the  shop.  She  meant  to  take  Suzanne 
back  with  her,  for  she  had  put  in  a  cot-couch  from 
the  Fenton  attic,  and  arranged  pillows  and  covers 
for  the  child's  afternoon  nap.  She  was  feeling  es- 
pecially exhilarated,  because  her  little  place  of  busi- 
ness was  looking  so  attractive  and  because  her  goods 
seemed,  on  sober  inspection,  to  have  been  well  and 
sensibly  chosen. 

Suddenly  she  noticed  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street  a  form  and  overcoat  which  looked  familiar. 
"It's  Alison,"  she  said,  half-aloud.  Then  she  looked 
to  see  who  was  with  him.  It  was  a  woman,  someone 
she  did  not  know;  had  never  seen  before.  Con- 
stance's eyesight  was  keen.  It  was  a  dull  day,  with 
lowering  clouds  and  a  threat  of  snow,  yet  she  dis- 
cerned the  smart  cloak,  fur-trimmed,  the  blue  toque 
over  the  modishly  coiled  auburn  hair  of  the  woman 
across  the  street.  She  was  a  tallish  woman,  almost 
as  tall  as  Sharland,  and  not  older  than  Constance 
herself,  probably  younger.  The  two  people  were 
talking  so  earnestly  that  they  did  not  see  Constance 
— or  at  least  Sharland  gave  no  sign  of  recognition. 
They  turned  a  corner,  leading  away  from  town,  and 
Constance  lost  sight  of  them. 

She  had  been  a  woman  years  enough  to  know  the 
meaning  of  the  jump  and  sinking  at  her  heart,  the 
pang  at  her  breath. 


SUPPORT  289 

She  had  prided  herself  on  her  immunity  from 
jealousy.  She  had  boasted  sometimes  that  she  be- 
lieved in  and  practiced  the  principle  of  live  and  let 
live,  and  had  said  that  jealousy  was  only  an  evi- 
dence of  one's  own  ungenerous  spirit.  But  now,  for 
five  minutes,  she  gave  herself  up  to  it.  Tears  rose 
to  her  eyes,  her  breathing  came  irregularly,  bitter- 
ness seemed  to  clog  in  her  mouth.  She  was  not 
conscious  of  thinking.  She  felt  only  a  physical  reac- 
tion to  something  horribly  distasteful — something 
which  burned  or  withered  or  shrank  one  into  a 
smaller  compass  than  one  had  occupied  before.  She 
was  so  bewildered  by  the  shock  of  this  unexpected 
misery  that  she  hardly  knew  what  was  happening  to 
her.  She  walked  along  unconscious  of  her  sur- 
roundings. 

Then  she  came  to  herself  with  a  sudden  clarity  of 
thought  which  revealed  what  she  had  been  feeling. 
She  had  flown  into  a  jealous  passion  because  she  had 
seen  Alison  Sharland  walking  casually  and  non- 
committally  with  another  woman.  So  this  was  the 
sort  of  person  she  was;  and  this  was  the  way  she 
felt  about  Sharland.  She  walked  faster,  as  if  to 
leave  this  new  self  behind.  The  woman  with  Alison 
might  be  one  of  a  hundred  acquaintances,  met  in 
business  or  in  his  social  diversions.  She  might  mean 
nothing  at  all.  But  intuition  whispered  to  Con- 
stance that  it  was  not  a  casual  acquaintance  which 
held  two  people  so  absorbed  in  talk,  or  that  marked 
the  demeanor  of  the  two  whom  she  had  just  beheld. 

This    fervor    of   jealousy   needed    consideration. 


290  SUPPORT 

Constance  forced  it  out  of  her  mind  for  the  rest  of 
the  day.  Not  until  she  was  in  bed  that  night  did  she 
hold  it  up  and  turn  it  over  fearlessly  in  her  thought. 
She  saw  that  it  did  not  necessarily  betoken  love. 
There  is  a  deal  of  difference  between  love  and  the 
desire  for  possession.  She  did  not  love  Frank  any 
more,  and  the  thought  of  him  with  another  woman 
no  longer  gave  her  violent  pain.  What  she  felt  for 
him  was  more  a  tender  regretful  regard  than  any 
deep  or  romantic  passion.  She  did  not  love  any  man 
in  that  way  now.  She  did  not  believe  that  she  loved 
Alison  Sharland.  But  she  wanted  him.  She  wanted 
his  companionship,  his  admiration,  his  homage, 
whatever  he  had  to  give.  She  wanted  to  reassure 
herself  with  his  fidelity.  She  wanted  him — not  to 
marry,  perhaps,  but  to  have,  to  keep,  to  possess. 

Constance  was  not  able  to  analyze  her  inmost 
feelings  in  quite  this  cold-blooded  way.  She  still 
permitted  herself  a  warmth  of  self-delusion.  Yet 
she  saw  that  what  she  felt  for  Sharland  was  not  the 
deepest  or  the  truest  of  affections,  though  it  might 
become  deeper  and  truer,  if  she  were  sure  he  wanted 
it,  and  if  she  did  not  restrain  it  from  finding  its 
honest  expression. 

She  went  back  to  the  days  before  she  was  engaged 
to  Frank,  trying  to  remember  how  she  had  felt,  and 
whether  she  had  "let  herself  go."  She  recalled  that 
it  was  an  uneasy  time,  of  uncertainty  and  discom- 
fort, not  too  poignant;  but  then  she  had  been  fairly 
sure  of  Frank's  intentions,  and  Frank  was  not  the 
reticent,  opaque  sort  of  man  that  Alison  was. 


SUPPORT  291 

Well,  what  she  had  learned  was  interesting,  but  it 
proved  not  much,  beyond  the  fact  that  she  did  not 
like  to  see  a  man  who  called  frequently  upon  her 
walking  out  with  another  woman. 

The  next  day  she  persuaded  Sally  Rathvon  to 
walk  down  with  her  to  see  the  shop,  just  before  it 
was  opened.  When  they  were  opposite  a  flower 
store,  Constance  saw  a  tall,  smartly  dressed  figure 
pause  before  the  blossoming  window.  Repressing 
her  excitement,  she  said  in  a  careless  tone  to  Sally, 
"Will  you  tell  me  who  that  is?" 

Sally  looked  across  the  street.  "Who?  Where?" 
she  asked  provokingly. 

Constance  took  hold  of  her  arm.  "Over  there  in 
front  of  Delaney's,  in  the  fur-trimmed  coat  and  the 
blue  hat." 

"Oh!"  Sally's  eyes  widened.  "That?  That's 
Hilda  Farrar." 

Constance  drew  in  her  breath.  Hilda  Farrar. 
She  was  conscious  that  Sally  was  looking  at  her 
oddly,  but  she  could  not  give  her  thought  to  Sally. 
Then  Hilda  Farrar  had  not  committed  suicide.  Far 
from  it.  She  turned  and  strode  away  in  the  bleak 
February  wind  with  a  free  step,  a  lively  and  sentient 
mien.  She  expressed  vitality,  joy  of  living,  power. 
What  had  this  auburn-haired  woman  meant  in 
Sharland's  life?  It  was  odd  that  gossip  had  not 
completely  discovered.  Probably  there  was  not 
much  to  know.  The  two  had  been  friends,  and  had 
drifted  apart.  The  Farrar  girl  went  away;  Alison 
went  to  North  Dakota  and  then  to  the  war.  Some 


292  SUPPORT 

relationships  were  so  slight  that  they  did  not  bear 
the  strain  of  separation — Constance  recollected  two 
or  three  such  instances  in  her  own  life.  It  was  the 
cousin  who  committed  suicide:  doubtless  she  had 
reasons  of  her  own.  The  whole  affair  had  probably 
been,  as  far  as  Sharland  and  Hilda  Farrar  were 
concerned,  merely  a  passing  episode. 

But  Hilda  Farrar  had  come  back.    Sally  was  mur- 
muring, "I  wonder "    Constance  was  wondering, 

too,  but  she  did  not  give  words  to  her  conjectures. 
They  were  nearing  her  shop,  and  she  began  to  talk 
rapidly  to  Sally,  telling  her  about  prices,  advertising, 
a  clever  arrangement  of  screens  which  hid  the  sink 
and  some  cooking  utensils.  She  could  have  a  gas 
plate  put  in,  and  could  give  Suzanne  a  simple  warm 
lunch — something  that  wouldn't  "smell  up  the 
place,"  and  she  could  have  a  bite  herself.  She  would 
not  have  to  go  home  at  noon.  Sally  was  all  eager- 
ness to  set  eyes  on  the  miracle-shop  and  its  fasci- 
nating details.  Hilda  Farrar  went  her  way  without 
comment,  but  not  without  surmises  and  suspicion. 


CHAPTER  XII 


MEANWHILE,  Constance  could  not  sit  down  and 
think.  She  had  other  things  to  do.  The  first  week 
in  the  shop  gave  her  an  understanding  of  how  busy 
her  life  was  to  be.  She  rose  early,  in  order  to  help 
her  mother  with  the  household  tasks.  She  put  in 
order  her  own  clothes  and  Suzanne's,  and  dressed 
herself  to  go  out.  On  the  days  when  Mrs.  Greening 
was  at  the  house,  she  left  Suzanne  with  "Auntie," 
who  brought  her  down  to  the  shop  at  noon.  Usually 
she  took  Suzanne  with  her.  There  was  a  long  day  in 
the  shop.  It  was  closed  at  six,  except  on  Saturdays, 
and  Constance  had  the  evenings  for  her  accounts, 
her  clothes,  calls,  letters,  and  needlework.  Between 
customers,  however,  she  could  often  scrawl  a  note, 
add  up  a  column  of  figures,  take  a  few  stitches  in  a 
tray  cloth,  or  do  something  to  entertain  Suzanne. 

Trade  started  off  briskly,  if  not  overwhelmingly. 
Constance  had  done  a  good  deal  of  advertising  of 
"The  Cupboard  Door  Gift  Shop,"  in  the  newspapers, 
on  hand-bills,  and  on  placards  at  the  State  College; 
but  she  depended  a  good  deal  on  her  window  display 
to  win  her  purchasers.  She  loved  planning  where 
each  article  should  stand.  Her  window  was  not 

293 


294  SUPPORT 

large,  but  it  had  a  good  light,  and  it  was  well  placed. 
She  devised  backgrounds  of  gray  velvet  or  gray 
linen  or  silk,  and  put  only  a  few  things  on  view  at 
one  time:  a  square  of  lacquer-red  Chinese  em- 
broidery, a  Russian  brass  ewer  and  tray,  a  blue  pot- 
tery bowl.  She  remembered  how  she  had  felt  in 
looking  in  at  such  a  window,  how  she  had  delighted 
in  a  few  definite  things,  and  felt  irritated  at  a  hud- 
dle. She  wanted  people,  when  they  stopped  and 
looked,  to  gain  a  distinct  impression,  and  go  away 
saying,  "I'd  like  that  tray,"  or  "I'd  love  to  have  that 
bowl."  She  would  let  a  certain  object  stay  a  num- 
ber of  days  in  the  window,  to  fix  it  on  the  vision  of 
the  would-be  buyer.  Then  she  would  combine  it 
with  other  things.  The  blue  bowl  would  appear 
with  an  orange  plate,  or  a  cloth  cross-stitched  in 
blue ;  or  the  orange  plate  would  be  combined  with  a 
straight  green  vase  full  of  calendulas.  It  was  a 
breathless  decision  each  time  that  she  planned  her 
window.  Each  display  was  a  poem,  she  told  herself 
laughingly.  Or  it  was  a  game  which  she  played  with 
herself.  She  could  not  let  anyone  know  what  child- 
ish delight  she  took  in  selecting  the  pieces  of  pottery, 
the  textiles,  the  brasses,  for  the  perfection  of  group- 
ing which  she  desired.  "I  don't  suppose  anyone 
cares  whether  it's  so  perfect  or  not,"  she  said  rue- 
fully. But  she  found  that  someone  did.  An  in- 
structor in  the  Art  Department  at  the  college  came 
in  to  say,  "You  work  out  such  charming  pictures  in 
color,"  and  bought  some  of  the  things  which  she  had 
admired.  A  keen-faced  man  said,  "I  want  to  buy 


SUPPORT  295 

both  those  what-you-may-call-its  in  the  window. 
They  seem  to  jibe,  somehow.  I  don't  know  what  I 
mean,  exactly,  but  they  belong  together.  My  wife 
will  like  them." 

A  good  deal  of  her  trade,  Constance  saw,  was  to 
be  with  the  college  students.  Red-cheeked  young 
chaps  came  in  to  buy  something  "different"  for  their 
girl  friends.  Girls  came  in  to  buy  something  "dis- 
tinctive" for  one  another.  The  boys  bought  blun- 
deringly, as  a  rule,  and  were  pathetically  grateful  for 
assistance.  "She's  awfully  artistic,"  a  young  fellow 
would  confide  earnestly.  "I  want  to  give  her  some- 
thing that  she'll  fall  for — that  she'll  think  is  the  real 
stuff,  you  know."  There  were  other  lads,  of  the 
Aubrey  Beardsley  type,  with  a  supercilious  air,  who 
fingered  a  good  many  things,  made  loud  and  mi- 
nutely critical  remarks,  and  bought  highly  colored 
jars  or  table-covers.  They  usually  had  thin  volumes 
of  French  verse  hi  their  hands  or  pockets,  and  inter- 
larded their  comments  with  French  words  and 
phrases.  The  girls  bought  with  assurance,  too,  after 
asking  the  price  of  everything.  Sometimes  they 
bought  badly,  made  aesthetic  blunders.  But  the 
main  thing  was,  as  Constance  said  to  Rose,  that  they 
bought;  and  since  she  didn't  have  anything  in  the 
shop  that  was  really  bad,  they  could  not  go  very 
far  wrong. 

Two  or  three  women  came  in  during  the  first  week 
and  bought  things  for  bridge  prizes,  pleased  at  find- 
ing something  "original."  This  promised  well  for 
the  future,  when  it  became  known  that  odd  and  in- 


296  SUPPORT 

teresting  objects  could  be  secured  for  prizes  at  not 
too  great  an  expense.  Some  women,  even  her  own 
acquaintances,  were  patronizing.  Others  were  inter- 
ested and  sympathetic,  remarking,  "How  you  must 
love  this  work!"  and  "How  you  must  hate  to  see 
your  pretty  things  go!"  She  remembered  such  peo- 
ple, and  watched  to  see  them  come  again. 

She  made  a  good  profit  on  each  article.  "They 
have  to  pay  me  for  having  the  things  here,"  she  said. 
She  was  not  greedy,  but  there  was  no  use  in  keeping 
a  place  of  that  sort,  unless  one  profited  enough  to 
make  it  worth  while.  Her  needlework  was  received 
with  loud  acclaim,  and  snatched  up  with  appalling 
swiftness.  As  the  women  customers  said  to  one  an- 
other, "A  piece  of  hand  work  is  always  nice,  you 
know.  You  can  give  a  piece  of  hand  work  to  some- 
one— even  if  it's  only  a  towel  or  a  doily — and  she 
values  it,  no  matter  what  she  has,  or  how  rich  she 
is."  But  Constance  would  not  take  orders.  "I  can't 
be  worried  by  them,"  she  would  explain.  "I'll  do 
what  I  can,  and  put  it  in  the  shop,  and  whoever  sees 
it  first  can  buy  it.  It  would  drive  me  distracted  to 
be  trying  to  fill  orders." 

From  the  first,  the  little  business  took  on  a  promise 
of  permanence  which  filled  Constance  with  hope. 
She  remembered  what  Mary  Foster's  aunt,  Mrs. 
Craig,  had  said,  to  the  effect  that  cashing  a  check 
from  somebody  else  couldn't  compare  with  the  thrill 
of  earning  a  dollar  yourself.  "It's  true,"  Constance 
admitted.  "Even  now,  before  I've  really  succeeded, 
I  wouldn't  go  back  to  checks  for  anything."  She  be- 


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gan  to  dream,  with  a  good  deal  of  definiteness,  of  a 
little  flat  where  she  could  live  with  Suzanne. 

Mrs.  Fenton  fretted.  "It's  not  the  kind  of  thing 
I'd  like  you  to  be  doing,  Connie,"  she  said  dolefully. 

"Why  not?"  asked  Constance  without  rancor.  She 
did  not  care  much  now,  what  anyone  said. 

"Oh,  selling  things — a  public  place,"  Mrs.  Fenton 
stammered — "standing  in  that  shop  with  your  hat 

off!" 

Constance  laughed.  "I  might  wear  a  bonnet  or  a 
cap,"  she  said.  "How  would  a  lace  cap  do,  with 
purple  bows?" 

"Connie!  How  can  you  joke?"  Mrs.  Fenton  re- 
proved her. 

"Why  not  joke,  mother?" 

"Oh,  well,"  Mrs.  Fenton  sighed.  "I'm  glad  if  it 
pleases  you  and  brings  you  in  something.  But  you 
needn't  be  doing  it,  and  it  seems  so  foolish." 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you,"  said  Constance  suddenly, 
after  a  pause,  "that  I  do  need  it.  I  wrote  to  Frank 
and  his  lawyer  that  I  wouldn't  take  any  more  money 
from  them." 

Mrs.  Fenton  gave  a  cry  that  was  almost  a  scream. 
"You  didn't,  Connie !  I  can't  believe  that  you'd  do 
such  a  thing."  Her  face  expressed  the  feelings 
which  halted  on  her  tongue. 

"Now,  don't  get  excited  about  it,  mother,"  Con- 
stance begged,  keeping  her  own  poise  uninvaded. 
"You  see,  I'm  getting  my  business  started,  instead, 
and  it  ought  to  bring  in  just  as  much,  as  time  goes 
on — perhaps  more,  when  I  get  it  all  completed.  And 


298  SUPPORT 

I  feel  so  much  better  about  it.  Can't  you  see  how 
I  felt  about  taking  money  from  Frank,  now  that 
we're  separated  forever?" 

"No.  No.  I  don't  understand  any  such  notions," 
said  Mrs.  Fenton  harshly.  "I  should  think  that  was 
the  very  reason  why  you  should  have  something.  Oh, 
dear,  dear!  Where  did  you  get  such  strange  ideas? 
I'm  sure  I  never  expected  that  any  daughter  of  mine 

would  be  so  queer — so "  The  older  woman 

choked,  and  went  out  of  the  room,  pulling  the  door 
to  with  a  hard  swing,  behind  her. 

Constance  smiled  sternly.  "It's  just  as  well  to  get 
it  over,"  she  thought.  "Mother  was  so  upset  that  she 
didn't  think  to  ask  me  where  I  got  the  money  for  my 
enterprise.  I  sha'n't  tell  anybody  if  I  can  help  it." 

Rose  could  not  suppress  her  delight  in  the  shop, 
though  she  was  not  willing  to  put  it  into  words. 
"It's  a  dog's  life,"  she  said.  "It  keeps  you  working 
day  and  night."  She  was  rather  wistful,  Constance 
thought.  "I  suppose  you  get  a  good  deal  of  fun  out 
of  it,"  the  younger  sister  suggested. 

"No  end,"  exulted  Constance.  "I  never  was  so 
happy — as  far  as  the  work  is  concerned."  There 
were  things  which  blurred  her  happiness,  but  of  those 
she  had  nothing  to  say.  "I'm  sure  you  envy  me, 
Rose,"  she  said  in  a  teasing  way. 

"I  wouldn't  admit  it  if  I  did."  The  glint  in  Rose's 
eyes  showed  that  Constance  was  right.  "I  knew 
you'd  be  happier  out  of  the  house  than  in  it,"  she 
added.  "I  think  you  were  awfully  clever  to  think 
of  such  a  scheme,  and  to  put  it  through  in  such  a 


SUPPORT  299 

high-handed  way.  You're  a  bold  hussy,  Connie  dear, 
in  spite  of  your  ladylike  manners." 

"I  wish  I  were,"  Constance  complained.  "I  don't 
mind  saying  that  I've  been  a  bit  scared  at  times,  and 
I  haven't  got  over  it  yet,  by  any  means.  I  have  to 
be  honest,  too,  and  admit  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
Sally  Rathvon,  I  should  have  given  up — gone  and 
hanged  myself,  or  something." 

"You  didn't  expect  any  moral  support  from  your 
family,"  said  Rose;  "or  from  your  men  friends. 
Poor  Connie!"  She  put  her  arms  across  her  sister's 
shoulder,  and  gave  her  an  unexpected  caress.  After 
that,  Constance  felt  a  little  nearer  to  Rose,  and  real- 
ized that  the  girl  understood  more  than  she  ex- 
pressed. 

Wilbur  had,  of  course,  heard  of  the  gift  shop, 
through  his  mother's  letters.  He  dropped  in  on 
Saturday  afternoon.  Trade  was  brisk,  and  he  did 
not  have  much  opportunity  to  speak  with  Con- 
stance. "So  this  is  what  you  were  up  to?"  he  said 
pettishly.  "You  were  bound  to  go  ahead  with  it, 
anyhow,  regardless  of  my  advice." 

"Yes.  I  felt  that  I  had  a  right  idea,  and  I  wanted 
to  carry  it  through,"  she  answered  briefly.  There 
was  no  use,  she  discerned,  in  going  into  the  question 
of  money,  or  in  getting  involved  in  an  argument  with 
Wilbur. 

Her  brother  came  to  her  elbow  again,  after  she  had 
waited  on  someone.  "You  won't  make  a  go  of  it," 
he  prophesied.  "You  may  be  doing  a  little  now,  be- 
cause it's  new.  But  people  soon  tire  of  this  sort  of 


300  SUPPORT 

thing.  It  has  a  little  vogue,  and  perhaps  becomes  a 
fad  for  a  while,  but  it  soon  dies  out." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  so,"  Constance  replied  coolly. 
"People  are  learning — large  numbers  have  already 
learned — to  like  artistic  things  in  their  homes — I 
mean  good  things,  with  some  individuality,  not  just 
department  store  stuff,  and  furniture-shop  ready- 
mades." 

Wilbur  shrugged.  "Well,  I  hope  you're  right," 
he  made  answer.  Constance  was  amused  at  his  pa- 
tronizing mien.  "How  did  you  manage  about  the 
money?"  he  asked  stiffly,  his  curiosity  overcoming 
his  reluctance. 

"That's  a  secret,"  said  Constance  solemnly.  A 
woman  came  in  just  then,  seeking  a  birthday  present 
for  her  daughter.  Wilbur  went  away,  shrugging 
again.  He  was  a  good  deal  bewildered,  Constance 
knew.  Eleanor's  house  did  not  have  such  queer 
things  in  it — bright-colored  dishes,  and  Chinese 
trays,  and  big-figured  chintzes,  and  enamel-edged 
mirrors,  and  copper  coffee-pots;  but  he  tacitly  re- 
spected Connie's  taste,  and  felt  that  her  metropoli- 
tan experience  lent  her  wisdom.  Connie  had  always 
been  the  artistic  one  of  the  family.  Wilbur  could 
not  precisely  refute  what  she  said,  especially  since  she 
seemed  actually  to  be  selling  things  for  real  money. 
Henceforth  he  looked  wise  and  said  little ;  though  of 
course  he  could  not  lend  his  unqualified  approval  to 
a  financial  undertaking  upon  which  his  advice  had 
not  been  asked  or  accepted. 

Alison  Sharland  had  gone  to  Chicago  and  else- 


SUPPORT  301 

where,  on  business,  and  was  spared  the  flurry  of  the 
opening  of  "The  Cupboard  Door."  He  sent  Con- 
stance a  note  and  a  new  book  of  one-act  plays,  but 
he  made  no  reference  to  the  shop  or  to  Suzanne. 
"Or,"  she  said  to  herself,  "to  Hilda  Farrar." 


Sally  Rathvon  invited  Constance  for  dinner,  re- 
marking at  the  same  time  that  Grif  was  going  away 
on  the  eight-forty.  He  was  going  to  see  his  old 
mother  in  Indiana,  and  give  some  lectures  at  Val- 
paraiso University.  Constance  left  Rose  to  put  Su- 
zanne to  bed — since  Rose  had  offered,  apparently  in 
good  faith — and  went  over  at  half-past  six.  The  din- 
ner was  good,  and  Griffith  was  more  than  commonly 
agreeable,  so  that  the  occasion  was  happier  than 
might  have  been  expected.  After  two  cups  of  coffee 
and  a  cigar,  Griffith  got  himself  into  his  overcoat, 
took  his  bag,  which  Sally  had  packed,  kissed  his 
wife  and  the  baby  good-by  (the  other  children  were 
in  bed),  shook  hands  with  Constance,  and  departed. 
The  two  women  settled  down  before  a  log  fire  in  the 
sitting-room,  for  a  "good  talk."  There  was  some 
comment  on  the  progress  of  the  shop,  but  Constance 
had  other  matters  in  mind.  She  lost  no  time  in  get- 
ting at  the  questions  which  under  all  the  activities 
of  the  recent  days  had  been  vivid  in  her  thought. 

"Sally,"  she  said  with  a  bluntness  which  exposed 
her  eagerness,  "I  have  to  ask  you  something." 

"Yes,"  said  Sally.     She  opened  her  work-bag  and 


302  SUPPORT 

took  out  some  knitting.  This  time  it  was  a  jacket 
for  the  baby. 

"You  know  we  saw  Miss  Farrar — Hilda  Farrar — 
the  other  day  on  the  street/'  Constance  began.  "I 
had  seen  her  the  day  before,  with  Alison  Sharland." 

"Yes,"  said  Sally  imperturbably.  "She's  visiting 
some  relatives,  I  believe." 

"You  know  perfectly  well,"  Constance  went  on, 
"that  she  had  something  to  do  with  Alison  in  times 
past.  I've  heard  about  it  vaguely.  What  do  you 
know?" 

Sally  made  a  grimace.  "Not  very  much,"  she  said, 
as  if  willing  to  evade  the  question. 

"You  might  as  well  tell  me  what  you  do  know." 

Sally's  needles  clicked.  "It's  not  a  great  deal — 
what  I  actually  know,  I  mean.  It  came  to  me  from 
Buford  Clarke." 

"Ah!" 

"Buford  told  me,  just  before  he  went  away  to  the 
war.  He  said  that  Alison  Sharland  had  told 
him "  Sally  paused,  picking  up  a  dropped  stitch. 

"Well — what?"  asked  Constance,  moving  im- 
patiently in  her  chair. 

"That  he  and  Hilda  Farrar  had  spent  a  week  to- 
gether at  a  summer  resort  in  Northern  Michigan." 

The  heart  of  Constance  gave  a  bound.  Her  first 
impulse  was  jealousy;  her  second,  incredulity. 
She  held  herself  steady.  "Did  you  believe  it?"  she 
inquired,  knowing  that  her  voice  was  h&rd  and 
constrained. 

Sally  consulted  a  book  of  directions  for  knitting 


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baby-jackets.  "Why  shouldn't  I  believe  it?"  she 
said,  not  looking  up.  There  was  a  hint  of  bullying 
in  her  tone. 

"There  might  have  been  a  mistake,"  conjectured 
Constance,  she  did  not  know  why.  "Buford  may 
have  been  mistaken,  or  Alison  may  have  boasted 
of  what  wasn't  true.  Men  do  that,  sometimes." 

"Cads  do,"  said  Sally,  "and  hardly  any  man  can 
resist  boasting  if  it  is  true." 

Constance  was  contemplating  the  information 
which  she  had  secured.  "Is — is  Hilda  Farrar  that 
sort?"  she  demanded. 

"She's  not  supposed  to  be,"  Sally  returned.  "I 
don't  know  much  about  her.  But  she  goes  in  the 
best  society;  not  that  that  means  anything." 

Constance  made  a  shrewd  estimate  of  Hilda  Farrar 
— high-headed,  self-sufficing,  self-possessed.  She 
was  not  a  simple  girl,  carried  away  against  her  will. 
"But  there  may  have  been  a  mistake,"  she  persisted. 
She  could  not  be  hasty  to  think  ill  of  any  women. 
She  did  not  want  to  think  ill  of  Alison  Sharland. 

"To  tell  the  truth,"  Sally  confessed,  "I  always  sus- 
pected that  Buford  lied.  And  then,  again,  maybe 
he  didn't.  It's  hard  to  say." 

"What  made  you  think  he  lied?"  asked  Constance. 
"I  never  felt  that  I  knew  him  as  well  as  some  of  the 
other  men  that  we  went  with.  But  I  do  remember, 
once  or  twice,  he  told  me  things  that  weren't  true — 
about  matters  of  no  importance.  Once  it  was  about 
a  gun  he  bought  of  Tom  Elwood,  and  another  time 
about  his  going  into  Judge  Brent's  office." 


304  SUPPORT 

"Buford  got  queer,  toward  the  last,"  Sally  made 
explanation.  "He  turned  against  Alison,  you  know. 
They  were  furious  enemies." 

Constance  sat  marveling.  "No,  I  didn't  know 
that.  I  supposed  they  were  fast  friends — David  and 
Jonathan,  or  something  of  the  sort.  Alison  gave  me 
to  understand  that  they  were." 

"They  were"  said  Sally;  "but- something  came  be- 
tween them.  I  don't  know  what.  I  think  it  was 
Hilda  Farrar.  I  think  Buford  wanted  her  himself." 

"Oh!" 

"He  hated  Alison — like  poison.  He  came  in  here 
one  day,  all  pale  and  shaking.  He  called  Alison  a 
white-livered  hypocrite — I  think  he'd  just  seen  Ali- 
son and  Hilda  together.  And  then  he  told  me — 
what  I  told  you.  It  may  have  been  true.  I  think 
he  cared  for  Hilda.  He'd  gone  about  with  her  a  lit- 
tle. She  never  cared  for  him." 

"An  unpleasant  muddle,"  murmured  Constance. 
Her  hands  were  cold  and  unsteady  at  her  inevitable 
needlework. 

"Buford  was  broken,"  Sally  continued.  "When 
he  went  away  to  the  war,  he  didn't  want  to  come 
back." 

"Did  he ?"  asked  Constance  vaguely.  Many 

obscure  tragedies,  not  of  opposing  armies,  had  taken 
place  during  the  war. 

"I  don't  know,"  Sally  responded.  "Nobody  knows 
— unless  it's  Alison.  It  was  said  that  he  was  killed 
in  action." 

"I  hope  he  was,"  breathed  Constance. 


SUPPORT  305 

"I  think  it  probable,"  Sally  returned.  "There's 
no  use  in  prying  into  those  things." 

"No." 

There  was  a  long  space  when  the  two  women  were 
wordless,  over  their  wools  and  linens.  "Confusion," 
muttered  Constance,  just  audibly. 

"A  good  deal  of  life  seems  to  be  that."  Sally  un- 
rolled a  length  of  yarn  from  her  ball,  with  a  lovely 
sweep  of  her  bare  arm.  "Anyhow,  I  never  could 
make  out  whether  Buford  lied." 


Hilda  Farrar  came  into  the  shop  the  next  day. 

Constance,  alone  in  the  shop,  was  busy  with  a 
piece  of  hemstitching.  Suzanne  was  asleep  on  the 
couch  in  the  next  room.  The  door-latch  clicked,  and 
there  was  Hilda  Farrar — with  her  smart  clothes,  her 
touches  of  distinction,  her  aroma  of  expensive  per- 
fume. The  eyes  of  the  two  women  met  with  an  in- 
quiry and  a  challenge. 

"I  saw  a  lacquer  box  in  the  window  that  I  liked." 
Miss  Farrar 's  voice  was  high,  but  cultivated  in  tone, 
with  an  Eastern  accent  not  too  exaggerated. 

"I'll  get  it."  With  formal  politeness,  Constance 
brought  the  box,  dull  red  with  gold  figures.  "It's 
a  teabox,"  she  said.  She  opened  the  lid,  and  showed 
the  metal  lining. 

"It's  delightful."  Miss  Farrar  considered,  her 
gaze  on  the  women-shapes  which  circled  the  box. 
She  lifted  clear  red-brown  eyes  to  the  face  before 
her.  "How  much  is  it?" 


306  SUPPORT 

"Seven  dollars." 

"I'll  take  it."  The  young  woman  had  a  faint 
savor  of  ostentation  in  her  bearing. 

Constance,  wrapping  the  box  in  tissue  paper,  and 
then  in  her  special  lavender  sheet,  found  herself  say- 
ing mentally,  "I  know  something  about  you.  I  know 
that  you  spent  a  week  in  Michigan  with — " 

"Oh,  what  an  attractive  lunch-cloth,"  cried  Miss 
Farrar,  spying  the  square  of  folded  linen  which  lay 
under  glass  at  her  elbow.  Constance  had  finished 
the  cloth  at  Sally's,  and  had  washed  it  out  that  night 
at  home,  and  ironed  it  in  the  morning.  It  was  fresh, 
flawless,  a  perfect  example  of  her  most  careful  work. 
She  cringed  at  the  note  of  patronage  in  the  voice 
of  the  woman  across  the  counter.  "Did  you  do  it 
yourself?" 

Constance  nodded.  She  did  not  want  Hilda  Far- 
rar to  have  that  lunch-cloth. 

"May  I  see  it?" 

Constance  held  back.  "It's  hardly  dry  yet,"  she 
said.  "It  would  rumple  it  to  handle  it." 

"I'll  be  very  careful."  Hauteur  and  insistence 
compelled  the  reluctant  shopkeeper  to  exhibit  her 
treasure.  She  drew  it  from  the  glass  case.  "I  know 
something  about  you,"  she  was  repeating,  but  not 
aloud.  "I  could  humble  you  if  I  chose." 

"It's  lovely."  The  gloved  fingers  lifted  the 
squares,  as  Miss  Farrar  peeped  at  the  patterned  cor- 
ners. The  cool  red-brown  eyes  were  raised  again. 
"How  much  do  you  want  for  it?" 

"You  can't  have  it,  you  can't  have  it!"  shouted 


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Constance,  but  not  aloud.  She  delayed  her  answer, 
then  named  a  price  which  was  several  dollars  more 
than  she  had  intended:  If  it  were  too  much,  per- 
haps the  other  woman  would  not  take  it. 

"Very  reasonable  indeed."  Miss  Farrar  reached 
into  her  bag  for  her  purse.  Her  manner  just  escaped 
insolence.  "I  need  a  lunch-cloth  of  that  sort,"  she 
said.  Why  should  Hilda  Farrar  be  needing  lunch- 
cloths? 

Constance  stood  gaping.  She  passionately  rebelled 
against  doing  fine  needlework  for  Hilda  Farrar. 
But  she  could  not  evade  the  catastrophe.  She  could 
hardly  say  now  that  she  wanted  the  cloth  for  her- 
self. She  was  mesmerized  by  the  cool  gaze  of  the 
other  woman.  "Very  well."  She  began  wrapping  up 
the  parcel.  "You  can't  have  it,"  she  was  saying  in 
her  soul.  Yet  her  hands  were  busy  with  paper  and 
string.  The  aroma  of  the  expensive  perfume  came 
to  her  from  the  muff  which  lay  on  the  counter,  a  fine 
handkerchief  protruding  from  its  satin  lining. 

"Thank  you."  Hilda  Farrar  took  the  square  pack- 
age, and  laid  down  a  half-dozen  green  bills.  "You 
have  a  most  interesting  shop.  I  shall  come  in 
again." 

"Yes,  do.  You  spent  a  week  in  Michigan  with 
Alison  Sharland."  Constance  hardly  knew  how 
much  of  this  speech  she  had  uttered  aloud.  Hilda 
Farrar  was  a  high-headed  "piece"  as  Mrs.  Fenton 
would  say ;  yet  Constance  could  not  repress  a  twinge 
of  envy.  She  wished  that  she  could  hold  her  hand 
like  that,  sail  in  and  out  of  a  room  in  that  way,  be 


308  SUPPORT 

supercilious  and  still  not  openly  insolent.  No,  of 
course  she  didn't  want  that,  either.  But — there  was 
something  enviable  and  compelling  about  this  tall, 
self-satisfied  creature  in  the  smart  cape-coat  and  the 
close  blue  hat.  Constance  measured  herself  beside 
the  other,  and  felt  small  and  baffled. 

"Good  day,"  said  the  high,  perfectly  controlled 
voice. 

"Good  day."  Constance  stood  leaning  against  the 
counter,  rigid,  indignant.  Her  mind  was  whirling. 
The  thought  which  she  distinguished  in  the  turmoil 
was  this:  "Men  don't  often  marry  the  women 
whom  they  have  led  into  compliance.  Yet  some- 
times they  do,  if  there  is  lure  enough."  Sometimes 
they  did;  and  after  all,  perhaps  Buford  Clarke  had 
lied. 

Suzanne  woke,  whimpering.  Constance  went  to 
her  and  took  her  into  her  arms  with  a  possessive  ges- 
ture which  said,  "I  have  this,  anyhow."  Suzanne 
flung  her  arms  around  her  foster-mother's  neck,  and 
kissed  the  flushed,  shamed  cheek  pressed  harshly 
against  hers. 

4 

Alison  did  not  come  to  see  her  very  often  now. 
It  was  as  if  he  hesitated  as  to  whether  he  should 
keep  on  coming  or  not.  On  the  next  evening  after 
Constance's  encounter  with  Hilda  Farrar,  he  called 
late  in  the  evening,  making  an  excuse  for  not  stay- 
ing long.  They  sat  in  the  dining-room,  for  Rose 
and  Schelling  had  come  in  from  having  dinner  at 


SUPPORT  309 

the  hotel,  and  were  talking  and  laughing  in  the  draw- 
ing-room. Suzanne  was  in  bed,  but  the  thoughts  of 
Constance  dwelt  upon  the  little  creature  snuggled 
in  blankets  in  the  room  overhead.  Suddenly,  with 
the  courage  of  inspiration,  she  said,  "A  friend  of 
yours  was  in  my  shop  yesterday." 

"A  friend  of  mine?"  he  replied.  "I  have  a  good 
many  friends — or  acquaintances,  at  least.  Who 
was  it?" 

"Miss  Farrar."  Her  tone  had  a  dare  in  it,  which 
said,  "Tell  me  about  this  woman." 

"Oh.  Hilda  Farrar,"  he  said.  He  looked  down  at 
the  table,  tracing  the  pattern  of  the  cloth  with  his 
forefinger.  It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  pro- 
nounced her  name  in  Constance's  hearing. 

"I've  seen  you  with  her  once  or  twice."  Constance 
held  her  fingers  tensely  against  the  arms  of  her 
chair. 

"Yes.  She  has  been  here  about  a  week,"  he  an- 
swered. He  sat  staring  down  at  the  table.  He  was 
so  still,  and  the  pause  was  so  prolonged  that  Con- 
stance shuddered  with  nervousness.  "Hilda  and  I 
went  about  a  good  deal  together,  for  a  while,"  he 
said  at  last.  "We  were — we  liked  each  other  pretty 
well." 

Constance  wanted  to  say.  "I  know.  I  know  the 
secret  of  Hilda  Farrar."  But  she  only  said,  "Yes,  I 
believe  I  heard  something  about  it." 

"From  whom?"  he  asked. 

"From  Sally — and  one  or  two  others." 

Sharland  colored  darkly.     "I  don't  know  what 


310  SUPPORT 

Sally's  been  saying  about  me/'  he  challenged  her. 
His  eyes  narrowed  with  resentment. 

"Nothing  very  much.  In  fact,  it  was  my  mother 
who  first  mentioned  Miss  Farrar,"  Constance  made 
response.  "She  thought  she  had  committed  suicide." 

Sharland  looked  at  her  angrily.  "The  papers  got 
it  garbled.  It  was  her  cousin,  Wilma  Farrar. 
Hilda's  had  a  hard  time  to  live  it  down." 

"To  convince  people  that  she  is  alive?"  smiled 
Constance  satirically. 

"Something  like  that." 

"Of  course  these  things  didn't  happen  here,"  said 
Constance. 

"No.  In  Ohio.  They  have  the  old  home  there — 
a  place  in  the  country." 

"The  cousin" — Constance  could  not  keep  from  say- 
ing— "did  she — was  it — " 

Sharland's  skin  showed  white  as  his  angry  flush 
faded.  His  features  were  contracted  into  a  kind  of 
grimace,  whether  sardonic  or  pained,  Constance 
could  not  tell.  "It  was  jealousy,"  he  said.  "She 
was  a  nervous  sort  of  girl.  She  was  insanely  fond  of 
Hilda,  and  yet  insanely  jealous — of  her  looks,  clothes, 
manners,  opportunities,  attentions — everything. 
There  was  no  other  cause — none  at  all,"  he  repeated, 
as  if  defending  himself. 

"No,"  said  Constance.  She  wanted  him  to  feel 
that  she  was  convinced. 

"Hilda  thought  that  I'd  been  unfair  to  Wilma — 
that  I'd  made  Wilma  think  I  cared  for  her,"  he  went 
on.  "I  hadn't.  Wilma  didn't  care  for  me.  She 


SUPPORT  311 

was  furiously  jealous,  that  was  all.  She  may  have 
supposed — "  He  broke  off.  "Well,  anyhow,  she 
left  a  note  one  day,  saying  she  had  gone  to  the  Lake. 
They  found  her  the  next  morning." 

"Terrible,"  Constance  found  breath  to  say. 

"Hilda  blamed  me,"  Sharland'  went  on.  "She 
wouldn't  believe  that  I  hadn't  had  something  to  do 
with  it.  We  didn't  see  each  other  for  a  long  time — 
not  till  she  came  back,  recently." 

It  was  a  dark  story.  How  much  darker  it  would 
be  if  all  were  told,  Constance  could  not  conjecture. 
Perhaps  there  really  had  been  something  between 
Wilma  and  Alison.  Or  perhaps  Wilma  had  sus- 
pected what  had  gone  on  between  Alison  and  Hilda. 
Perhaps  that  was  why  she  had  killed  herself — in 
horror  or  jealousy.  Perhaps  it  was  remorse  that  had 
kept  Hilda  so  long  from  Alison — though  as  far  as  that 
was  concerned,  she  didn't  look  like  a  person  who 
would  suffer  from  remorse  or  any  form  of  repentance. 

There  was  always  the  chance  that  Buford  had  not 
told  the  truth.  Constance  had  known  him  to  lie. 
He  wanted  Hilda  himself,  so  Sally  had  said.  He  had 
hated  Alison;  and  he  had  been  "queer"  toward  the 
last. 

If  one  could  only  say  to  people,  "Did  you  do  so- 
and-so?"  If  she  could  only  ask  Alison  whether 
what  Buford  had  said  was  true! 

But  suppose  it  was  true?  What  difference  would 
it  make?  That  is,  as  far  as  Constance  herself  was 
involved? 

Sharland  sat  thinking,  remembering,  regretting, 


312  SUPPORT 

perhaps.  Constance  sat  dumbly,  holding  the  arms  of 
her  chair.  She  heard  her  father  stirring  about  in 
the  sitting-room.  Her  father  had  had  his  romances, 
too.  Now  he  was  old  and  fretful  and  complaining. 
Alison  would  be  old  sometime.  The  fires  would  die 
out.  The  decisions  would  be  made,  and  the  results 
of  them  long  over:  the  romance  faded,  life  reduced 
to  dullness — the  round  of  meals,  the  newspaper,  the 
pain  in  the  back. 

Here  was  Alison  now — young,  good-looking,  de- 
sirable. The  very  imputation  against  him  made  him 
more  desirable,  in  a  way.  He  was  not  so  cold  and 
correct  as  he  had  seemed.  He  was  not,  at  least,  a 
graven  image  of  conventionalism. 

She  started,  turning  away  from  these  meditations 
to  the  cry,  "Why  did  it  have  to  be  a  man  like  this? 
Why  did  it  have  to  be  a  situation  like  this?  Why 
couldn't  I  have  found  the  right  man,  free  and  un- 
trammeled,  who  could  have  cared  for  me  unequivo- 
cally, and  whom  I  could  have  loved  in  return?" 

Alison  drew  a  long  breath  and  moved  in  his  chair. 
He  reached  out  for  the  book  on  the  table.  "You  said 
you  had  finished  this,  didn't  you?  I'll  take  it  along." 

"I  enjoyed  it  so  much."  One  must  go  back  to 
formalities.  She  went  with  him  to  the  hall.  Rose 
and  Schelling  were  still  talking  in  the  drawing-room. 

"It  goes  on,  the  same  as  ever?"  Alison  said,  with 
a  curl  of  his  lip. 

"Yes.  The  same  as  ever."  Constance  felt  un- 
comfortable, humiliated  by  his  contempt  for  the 
man  Schelling,  as  if  somehow  Schelling  belonged  to 


SUPPORT  313 

her  against  her  will.  Alison  seemed  to  recede  from 
her,  to  be  drawn  away  by  an  implacable  force.  His 
"Good  night"  had  in  it  something  of  a  permanent 
parting. 

5 

There  was  tension  about  the  house,  a  suspicion 
in  the  air,  something  that  could  not  be  outlined  or 
formulated.  "What  is  Rose  up  to?"  Constance 
asked  herself.  The  younger  sister  was  going  irregu- 
larly to  her  classes,  staying  in  her  room  a  good  deal. 
Her  color  was  not  so  vivid  or  her  eyes  so  bright  as 
usual.  Constance  was  restless  and  apprehensive. 
Her  own  problems  stood  in  abeyance.  "What  are 
we  going  to  do  about  Rose?"  she  asked  her  mother. 

"About  Rose?"  Mrs.  Fenton  looked  vague.  "We'll 
just  let  her  go  on,  I  suppose.  There  never  has  been 
anything  else  to  do." 

"She  acts  queer,"  said  Constance,  frowning. 

"She  always  acts  queer,"  Mrs.  Fenton  returned. 
"What  is  it  now,  Connie?" 

"Oh,  I  can't  just  say.  It  isn't  anything  definite. 
I  just  feel  something." 

"It's  nothing  new.  You're  nervous,  Connie," 
Mrs.  Fenton  said.  "You  work  so  hard.  You'll 
break  down,  trying  to  do  so  much." 

"I'm  all  right,  mother.  You  know  I  love  the 
shop.  And  it's  going  so  splendidly  that  I  ought  to 
be  glad."  Constance  did  not  have  to  simulate  her 
satisfaction  in  the  little  business  which  promised  so 
well  and  kept  her  so  happily  occupied.  "But  I've 


314  SUPPORT 

been  thinking  that  we  ought  to  have  Mrs.  Greening 
in  a  little  more.  Then  I  shan't  have  to  do  so  much 
at  home,  and  she  will  relieve  me  a  bit  with  Suzanne." 

"Well,  just  as  you  say,  Connie.  It  would  be  a 
help.  But  I  wish  you  wouldn't  insist  on  keeping  a 
shop,  when  you  could — " 

"Oh,  mother!"  Constance  cried  out  impatiently. 
Her  mother  had  never  ceased  to  wail  over  the  lost 
allowance.  It  was  patently  gone  forever,  for  Frank 
had  made  no  effort  to  reinstate  it. 

"I'll  try  not  to  say  any  more,"  Mrs.  Fenton  sulked. 

"We  were  talking  about  Rose,"  Constance  began 
again.  "I  hope  that  I'm  not  fussy.  But  I  care  so 
much  about  her  that  I  can't  help  worrying.  I  want 
her  to  be  happy — to  make  something  of  herself. 
She  has  a  lot  of  ability  if  she  would  only  try  to 
bring  it  out." 

"I  don't  know."  Mrs.  Fenton's  mouth  drooped. 
"One  gets  so  that  one  hardly  dares  to  make  any 
plans  for  one's  children." 

This  Constance  knew  to  be  a  stab  at  herself.  She 
kept  silence  and  went  on  with  her  needlework.  She 
was  thinking  how  she  could  have  a  tiny  little  flat, 
with  just  herself  and  Suzanne — and  Mrs.  Greening 
in  to  help.  It  wouid  not  be  long  till  Suzanne  would 
be  going  to  the  kindergarten  for  a  part  of  the  day. 
She  would  try  to  get  Wilbur  to  give  her  back  a  hun- 
dred dollars  or  so,  and  then  she  would  not  owe  so 
much  money  to  Sally.  It  was  going  to  be  slow,  at 
the  best,  keeping  up  the  shop,  supporting  herself 
and  Suzanne,  and  putting  in  something  at  home  for 


SUPPORT  315 

the  support  of  her  father  and  mother.  But  it  could 
be  done.  She  was  turning  over  her  stock  with  great 
rapidity,  and  making  a  good  profit.  She  could  pay 
the  rent  of  her  shop  with  her  handiwork  alone;  for 
she  worked  swiftly,  her  towels  and  traycloths  were 
quickly  taken,  and  the  returns  were  almost  all  pure 
gain. 

That  evening,  when  she  went  to  her  sister's  room 
for  a  spool  of  thread  which  she  had  lent  and  needed, 
she  found  Rose  crying.  "What's  all  this  about?"  she 
asked  with  a  mock-blustering  air,  knowing  that  Rose 
did  not  take  kindly  to  sympathy. 

"Nothing.  I  just  feel  blue,"  said  Rose,  hastily 
suppressing  her  tears. 

"Won't  you  tell  me  why?"  begged  Constance.  She 
felt  shy  as  she  asked  the  question,  for-  Rose's  con- 
fidences were  not  lavishly  given. 

"Can't  one  feel  blue  if  she  wishes?"  pouted  Rose. 

"Certainly.     If  one  wishes  it  very  much." 

"Well,  I  do,"  said  Rose  shortly. 

"All  right  then,"  Constance  made  cheerful  answer. 
If  Rose  would  only  say  something — would  only  tell 
what  was  troubling  her !  Of  course  it  had  something 
to  do  with  Schelling.  There  was  no  doubt  about 
that.  Perhaps  Rose  was  deciding  to  give  him  up, 
and  he  was  making  it  hard  for  her.  That  was  the 
most  hopeful  view  to  take.  There  were  other  possi- 
bilities— not  probabilities,  thank  heaven — which 
Constance  refused  to  entertain. 

It  was  with  a  warmth  of  relief  that  Constance 
realized  that  Schelling  had  not  been  at  the  house  for 


316  SUPPORT 

several  days.  This  relief  offset  the  fact  that  Alison 
Sharland  had  not  come  to  the  house  again.  Rose 
appeared  nervous,  but  not  depressed;  she  was  ex- 
hilarated, rather,  in  an  excited  and  sparkling  way. 
Her  eyes  were  big  and  bright  now,  flashing,  as  it 
were,  defiance.  Her  step  was  hurried.  Her  body 
palpitated  with  activity.  Her  restlessness  sounded 
in  the  house,  upstairs  and  down,  'with  her  quick 
heedless  motions,  her  exaggerated  laugh  and  song. 

Then  came  a  wet  day  in  March,  when  the  house 
seemed  suddenly  silent  and  void.  Constance  had  felt 
it  at  noon,  when  she  came  home  to  get  Suzanne, 
leaving  a  high-school  girl  in  charge  of  the  shop. 
She  felt  it  again  when  she  came  in,  a  little  after  six. 
She  said  with  a  prescience  of  evil,  "Mother,  where  is 
Rose?" 

"Why,  I  don't  know,"  returned  Mrs.  Fenton 
blankly;  "out  somewhere,  I  suppose.  She's  doing 
quite  a  lot  of  studying  at  the  library  now." 

"She  hasn't  been  in,  all  day,  has  she?"  Constance 
queried.  "She  didn't  come  home  after  I  left,  this 
noon?" 

"No.  But  she  sometimes  eats  at  the  cafeteria, 
when  she  has  a  class  or  something  early  in  the  after- 
noon," said  Mrs.  Fenton. 

"Did  she  say  anything  about  doing  that,  to-day?" 
probed  Constance. 

"No,  I  don't  remember  that  she  did."  Mrs.  Fen- 
ton wrinkled  her  forehead  reflectively. 

"I  wish  she'd  come  home."  Constance  spoke  im- 
pulsively. She  had  heard  her  father  utter  the  same 


SUPPORT  317 

words  in  the  same  tone  of  apprehension  which  she 
was  using. 

"Nothing  can  happen  to  her,"  said  the  mother 
quickly. 

"No.  Perhaps  not."  Constance  went  to  give  Su- 
zanne her  supper,  and  to  put  the  child  to  bed.  Her 
own  supper  was  deferred.  She  was  not  hungry  now, 
though  she  had  been  when  she  left  the  shop.  She 
sat  beside  Suzanne,  encouraging  her  to  eat  her 
potato  and  gravy.  Suzanne  had  not  entirely  over- 
come her  unwillingness  to  eat,  though  she  was  grow- 
ing sturdier  and  more  nearly  normal. 

"If  I'll  eat  it,  will  you  tell  me  a  story?"  the  little 
girl  craftily  inquired. 

"Yes.  Two  little  short  stories,  maybe,"  Constance 
consented  with  absent-minded  readiness. 

"The  one  about  the  little  Red  Hen?"  Suzanne  per- 
sisted. 

"Maybe ;  but  that's  such  a  long  one." 

"I  want  that  one."  Suzanne  stuck  out  her  lips. 
"Mummy,  I  want  to  hear  the  story  about  the  little 
Red  Hen." 

"All  right,  then.  Just  that  one."  Constance  was 
thinking  of  Rose — how  lovely  she  had  looked  that 
morning  with  her  wide,  brilliant  eyes — frightened, 
perhaps — and  her  over-red  cheeks.  The  older  sister 
had  wondered  in  passing  whether  Rose  were  fever- 
ish or  too  lavishly  rouged.  "I  wish  she'd  come,"  she 
repeated  aloud. 

"Who,  Mummy?"  Suzanne  looked  up,  spoon  in 
hand. 


318  SUPPORT 

"Auntie  Rose.  She  hasn't  been  here  since  this 
morning." 

"I  wish  Auntie  Rose  would  come,"  Suzanne  agreed. 
"Mummy,  she'll  come,  won't  she?" 

"I  don't  know,"  murmured  Mummy.  "Why,  yes, 
of  course  she'll  come,"  she  corrected  herself 
briskly.  "Hurry  up,  now,  and  get  through,  so  that 
you  can  have  your  pudding." 

When  Suzanne  had  eaten,  Constance  took  her  up 
to  bed,  calling  out  to  Mrs.  Fenton,  "You  and  father 
go  on  and  eat.  I'll  come  down  before  you've  fin- 
ished." 

Constance  put  Suzanne  on  the  bed,  and  began  un- 
buttoning the  child's  shoes.  Her  hands  faltered  at 
the  task.  "See  if  you  can't  take  them  off,  darling," 
she  said.  She  got  up  from  her  knees  and  went  into 
Rose's  room.  Her  fingers  were  clumsy  as  she  lighted 
the  gas.  The  room  looked  extraordinarily  neat.  The 
white  counterpane  was  fresh  and  smooth ;  the  dresser 
scarf  was  unblemished,  and  no  toilet  articles  lay 
upon  it.  There  were  no  articles  of  clothing  lying 
about.  Rose  was  not  especially  careful  with  her 
belongings,  and  there  was  usually  a  hat  in  evidence 
in  her  room,  or  a  pair  of  shoes,  or  a  glove  "or  a  scarf. 
Now  there  was  nothing  of  the  sort  to  be  discerned. 
The  room  seemed  ominously  bare. 

Constance  stepped  to  the  door  of  the  clothes-closet 
and  threw  it  open.  Clothes  hung  thinly  on  the  pole 
which  supported  a  row  of  coat-hangers.  What  was 
missing?  Constance,  numb  with  fear,  fumbled 
among  the  garments.  The  silk  kimono  was  gone, 


SUPPORT  319 

the  dark  blue  satin  dress,  the  winter  suit,  of  course 
(Constance  had  bought  it  for  Rose  in  the  autumn) ; 
Rose  was  probably  wearing  that.  The  best  after- 
noon dress  was  not  to  be  seen,  either — a  dull-blue 
crepe,  skillfully  made  over  from  one  of  Mrs.  Mof- 
fatt's — though  it  might  be  hanging  in  the  hall  ward- 
robe. Other  things  were  lacking — slippers,  a  velvet 
toque  which  Constance  had  copied  from  one  in 
Vogue,  and  which  Rose  wore  with  a  ravishing  grace. 
A  search  in  the  dresser  revealed  an  absence  of  humble 
necessaries,  like  brush  and  comb,  hand-mirror,  and 
hair-pins,  to  say  nothing  of  the  pile  of  fresh  hand- 
kerchiefs which  Constance  herself  had  put  into  the 
top  -drawer. 

Constance  pushed  the  drawer  shut.  She  found 
herself  saying  over  and  over,  "Oh,  God!  Oh,  God! 
she's  gone!"  just  like  a  woman  in  a  play.  She  stood 
wringing  her  hands  and  sobbing  without  tears. 

Then  she  controlled  herself.  She  was  acting  in 
a  silly  melodramatic  fashion.  Probably  Rose  had 
merely  gone  to  stay  with  someone — Agnes  Errol, 
possibly,  or  Cynthia  DeVoe.  Of  late,  Rose  had  seen 
but  little  of  her  college  friends,  because  she  had  been 
so  much  with  Schelling;  but  she  kept  up  a  desultory 
association  with  a  few  of  them.  Constance  thought 
of  telephoning  to  Cynthia,  then  shook  her  head.  "I 
won't  say  anything,"  she  muttered. 

She  had  forgotten  Suzanne;  but  now  an  injured 
voice  came  from  her  own  room :  "Mum-mee !  Mum- 
me-e-e!  Aren't  you  comin'  back?" 

Constance   hastened   to   undress   Suzanne,   with 


320  SUPPORT 

apologies  for  her  delay.  Hardly  aware  of  what  she  was 
saying,  she  repeated  the  story  of  the  Little  Red  Hen. 
Suzanne  corrected  her  a  dozen  times  on  important 
details  in  the  story — what  the  cat  said,  and  what  the 
rat  said,  and  the  course  of  the  retribution  which  fol- 
lowed upon  indolence. 

The  older  sister  could  not  eat  any  supper.  She 
tried  gulping  down  some  meat  and  bread,  but  they 
choked  her.  Mrs.  Fenton  was  reading  the  Evening 
News.  "It  says  here,"  she  announced,  "that  H. 
Schelling,  of  the  Clinton  Street  Garage,  has  been  out 
of  town  for  several  days,  on  business.  I  wish  he'd 
go  oftener,"  she  made  comment. 

"M-m-m,"  answered  Constance.  "Did  you  order 
coffee,  mother?" 

"Goodness!  no."  Mrs.  Fenton  laid  down  the 
paper,  and  half  rose  in  consternation.  "I  forgot  it. 
There  won't  be  any  for  breakfast,  and  your  father 
will  be  up  in  arms." 

"I'll  go  out  to  the  delicatessen  on  the  Avenue.  It 
will  be  open."  Constance  was  glad  of  the  errand. 
Her  soul  was  heavy  with  forebodings.  Rain  was 
falling  and  the  wind  swirled  wetly  round  the  cor- 
ners. "Oh,  poor  Rose!  poor  Rose!"  Constance  kept 
repeating,  as  if  she  knew  her  sister  to  be  lying  de- 
fenseless in  the  storm. 

When  she  came  back  with  the  coffee,  her  father 
had  gone  to  bed.  He  had  a  pain  in  his  back,  Mrs. 
Fenton  explained.  "He  said  I  ought  to  sit  up  till 
Rose  came  home."  She  looked  queerly  at  her  daugh- 
ter, through  the  dimness  of  the  hall. 


SUPPORT  321 

Constance  felt  her  hands  shaking  as  she  took  off 
her  cape.  "Mother,"  she  said  thickly. 

"What?"  Mrs.  Fenton's  voice  had  in  it  a  rasping 
of  unadmitted  fear. 

"Mother,  you  go  up  and  look  in  Rose's  room,"  said 
Constance,  keeping  her  face  immobile. 

"Why?    What's  there?"  Mrs.  Fenton  shrank. 

"Well,  just  go  and  look.    I  left  the  gas  burning." 

Mrs.  Fenton  turned  obediently  and  climbed  the 
stairs.  Constance  hung  up  her  wraps  with  machine- 
like  motions.  She  was  cold,  but  her  shuddering  had 
left  her.  In  a  few  moments  her  mother  came  heav- 
ily down  the  stairs.  Her  expression  betokened  re- 
lief. "I  don't  see  anything.  It  looks  all  right," 
she  said. 

Constance  turned  her  gently  about.  "Won't  you 
look  again?  Look  in  the  clothes  closet.  Look  in 
the  dresser." 

"Connie,  what  in  the  world?"  The  older  woman's 
face  was  curiously  obstinate. 

"Go  and  look."  Constance  stood  tense  while  her 
mother,  breathing  hard,  went  up  the  long  red-car- 
peted stairs.  "I  couldn't  tell  her,"  the  younger 
woman  justified  herself.  She  heard  sounds  upstairs 
— her  mother's  step  on  the  floor,  the  opening  of  the 
closet  door,  the  shutting  of  dresser  drawers. 

Mrs.  Fenton  came  down  the  stairs,  blundering  a 
little  on  the  lower  steps.  Her  face  was  a  gray  ter- 
ror, mixed  with  scorn  for  her  consent  to  fear.  She 
stood  holding  to  the  newel  post.  It  seemed  a  long 
time  before  she  spoke.  "She  hasn't — she  wouldn't 


322  SUPPORT 

"  the  woman  panted.  "Oh,  Connie!  what  do 

you  think?" 

"I  don't  know  what  to  think,  mother,"  said  Con- 
stance. "I  dare  not  think.  Maybe  she's  all  right." 

"She  must  be  all  right."  Mrs.  Fenton  began  shak- 
ing violently,  with  a  palsy-like  tremor.  "The  paper 
said  he'd  gone  out  of  town,"  she  added,  hardly  able 
to  speak.  "What  can  we  do?  Oh,  what  can  we 
do?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Constance.  "I  think  we'll 
have  to  wait." 

"What  time  is  it?"  Mrs.  Fenton  looked  around 
vaguely,  as  if  she  expected  to  see  any  number  of 
clocks  materializing  in  the  hall. 

Constance  went  to  look.  Her  mother  followed  her 
into  the  sitting-room.  "Only  ten  minutes  after 
nine.  She  may  come  at  any  moment  now." 

But  they  both  knew  that  Rose  was  not  coming 
home  that  night.  They  stood  staring,  their  mouths 
open,  their  hands  reaching  out  unsteadily.  Then 
the  mother  was  holding  to  a  chair — a  tall  woman 
broken  by  weeping.  Her  shoulders  were  heaving 
horribly  under  her  gray  knitted  jacket. 

Constance  put  her  arm  around  her.  "Come, 
mother,"  she  begged,  "don't  do  that.  We  don't 
know — she  may  be  all  right.  Come,  mother." 

They  sat  there  in  the  sitting-room  till  two  o'clock. 
Now  and  then  Constance  went  down  and  put  more 
coal  upon  the  furnace  fire.  Each  hour  was  inter- 
minable. Upstairs  Mr.  Fenton  made  no  sign.  He 
was  a  heavy  sleeper;  and  the  women  kept  quiet  for 


SUPPORT  323 

fear  of  disturbing  him.  "I  hope  she'll  come  back 
before  her  father  knows,"  whispered  Mrs.  Fenton, 
as  if  even  mentioning  her  husband's  name  were 
dangerous. 

Most  of  the  time  they  said  nothing.  Mrs.  Fen- 
ton  sat  huddled  up,  her  hands  working  nervously  in 
her  lap,  or  clutching  at  the  frayed  upholstering  of 
her  chair.  Sometimes  she  nodded,  jerking  herself 
upright  with  a  guilty  start.  Once  she  gave  a  stifled 
shriek,  "Perhaps  she's  drowned  herself!" 

"Nonsense!  Of  course  she  hasn't,"  the  daughter 
answered  promptly.  "That's  not  like  Rose.  You 
needn't  give  that  a  thought."  Some  people  consid- 
ered drowning  a  mild  disaster  compared  to  some 
other  things,  she  was  thinking;  but  it  was  not  neces- 
sary to  give  voice  to  such  opinions. 

Constance  could  not  sit  still.  She  moved  about, 
from  one  chair  to  another,  tiptoed  up  to  see  if  Su- 
zanne were  warmly  covered,  and  to  put  out  the  gas, 
still  flaring  accusingly  in  Rose's  room.  She  heated 
milk  in  the  kitchen,  and  made  her  mother  drink  it; 
and  gave  anxious  attention  to  the  fires.  She  took 
up  books  and  papers,  and  put  them  down  again, 
tried  to  crochet,  to  sew,  to  cross-stitch,  but  flung  the 
work  aside.  At  two  o'clock,  she  said,  whitening,  "It's 
of  no  use,  mother.  She  isn't  coming  home.  You 
must  go  to  bed." 

Mrs.  Fenton  stood  up,  haggard  and  trembling.  A 
change  came  over  her  face.  She  turned  savagely 
upon  her  daughter.  "It's  your  fault,  Constance 
Moffatt  (there  was  repudiation  in  her  use  of  the 


224  SUPPORT 

married  name).  You've  encouraged  her  in  this,  I'll 
warrant.  You've  egged  her  on 

"Mother!"  Constance  was  aghast,  quivering  at 
the  insult.  "You  know  yourself  that  that's  untrue." 
'But  there  was  no  use  in  showing  resentment  at  what 
was  said  in  the  insanity  of  grief. 

"Have  we  got  to  have  another  disgrace  in  the  fam- 
ily?" The  older  woman  fell  to  crying  again,  her 
face  twisted,  her  wrinkles  deepened  by  her  anguish. 
"I  can't  bear  it !  I  can't  bear  it ! "  She  lifted  up  her 
voice  in  a  wail,  regardless  of  who  might  hear. 

There  were  sounds  above  and  on  the  stairs.  Mr. 
Fenton,  pale,  inadequately  dressed,  appeared  at  the 
doorway  of  the  sitting-room.  His  jaw  was  moving 
up  and  down  in  his  effort  at  speech.  His  blue  eyes 
protruded,  like  Wilbur's.  The  two  women  gazed  at 
him,  dreading  his  wrath. 

"Where's  Rose?"  His  voice  was  hoarse.  "Hasn't 
she  come  in?"  They  were  silent,  shrinking.  "Hasn't 
she?"  he  echoed  himself  fiercely. 

"No — but "  Mrs.  Fenton  began. 

Mr.  Fenton  took  a  step  forward.  "Where  is  she, 
then?"  he  shouted. 

"We  don't  know,  Fred,"  his  wife  found  courage  to 
say.  His  arrival  had  had  the  effect  of  turning  aside 
her  accusations. 

"Don't  know?  Why  don't  you  know?"  This  was 
mere  bluster,  to  cover  fear. 

Mrs.  Fenton  was  moaning.  "Oh,  Fred,  she's  gone. 
You  know  as  well  as  we  do  that  she's  gone." 

"Constance,  do  you  know  where  she  is?"    The  old 


SUPPORT  325 

man  faced  his  daughter,  an  almost  physical  threat  in 
his  clenched  fists. 

"No,  father,  I  don't."  Again  Constance  realized 
the  futility  of  anger. 

"You  do,  too."    He  came  toward  her,  glowering. 

"Don't  be  foolish,  father."  She  marveled  that  she 
could  speak  quietly,  unresentfully,  without  con- 
tempt. 

He  stepped  back,  growing  limp,  mumbling  apolo- 
gies. "Of  course  she's  gone  with  that  damned 
hound,"  he  brought  out,  snarling,  "but  I  wouldn't 
accuse  anyone  else  of  helping  her  to  get  away." 

Somehow  they  subsided,  lapsed  into  stolidity, 
forced  each  other  off  to  bed.  There  was  no  sleep  for 
them  except  the  fretted  stupor  of  weariness. 

In  the  morning,  they  were  white,  heavy-eyed,  too 
wretched  for  discussion  or  reproach.  Suzanne  was 
hungry  and  eager,  asking  incessantly  for  Auntie 
Rose.  "She  fixes  my  orange  juice  for  me,"  she  cried, 
in  her  high  little  voice ;  "and  she  puts  lots  of  sugar 
on  my  oatmeal." 

"She'll  come  pretty  soon,  I  think,"  said  Constance. 
"Don't  talk,  dear.  Grandma  feels  sorry  about 
something." 

"About  Auntie  Rose?"  the  merciless  little  voice 
retorted. 

With  a  gurgling  oath,  Mr.  Fenton  set  down  his 
coffee-cup,  pushed  back  his  chair,  and  left  the  table. 

"Oh,  I  can't  bear  it!"  Mrs.  Fenton  put  her  head 
down  and  sobbed. 

Constance   hurried    Suzanne   out   of   the   room. 


326  SUPPORT 

"Let's  eat  our  oatmeal  in  the  kitchen,"  she  coaxed. 
"It's  so  nice  and  warm  by  the  coal-stove." 

It  was  a  dark  day,  with  a  cutting  wind  and  flur- 
ries of  rain — a  day  fitted  to  make  one's  sorrows  the 
gloomier.  Mrs.  Fenton  showed  her  ravaged  face  at 
the  kitchen  door.  "You  aren't  going  to  the  shop 
to-day,  are  you,  Connie?" 

Constance  had  been  rejoicing  that  she  could  take 
Suzanne  and  escape,  since  there  seemed  nothing  that 
she  could  do  at  home.  "Why,  I  have  to,  mother," 
she  said.  "I  have  my  new  stock  to  unpack  and  ar- 
range, and  I've  told  a  number  of  people  about  things 
that  were  to  be  ready  for  them  to-day.  I  don't  see 
how  I  can  shut  the  shop  up  entirely.  Besides,  it 
would  be  too  conspicuous." 

"I  thought  Lida  might  stay  there,"  ventured  Mrs. 
Fenton. 

"She  has  to  go  to  her  classes;  and  anyhow,  she 
doesn't  know  about  the  new  things.  They  aren't 
marked — or  even  unpacked."  Constance  went  into 
the  dining-room,  and  put  her  arm  around  her  moth- 
er's shoulders.  "See  here,  mother,"  she  went  on  as 
gently  as  she  could,  "we  have  a  lot  of  family  pride, 
haven't  we?  We  aren't  going  to  say  anything  about 
this  till  we  have  to.  Are  we?" 

"No,  no!  Of  course  not,  Connie."  Mrs.  Fenton 
wiped  her  eyes,  and  pressed  her  hand  against  her 
lips.  She  steadied  herself.  "I  don't  intend  to  say 
a  word.  Your  father  won't,  either.  He  doesn't  even 
want  Wilbur  to  know." 

"Wilbur  least  of  all!"  exclaimed  the  other,  fer- 


SUPPORT  327 

vently.  "Rose  may  come  back  at  any  minute,  and 
explain  where  she  has  been,  and  this  will  all  blow 
over.  We  don't  want  to  get  Wilbur  on  the  war- 
path." 

"No,  no!"  Mrs.  Fenton  consented. 

"I'll  keep  Suzanne  with  me.  You  go  on  just  as 
much  as  you  can  as  if  nothing  had  happened,"  Con- 
stance urged.  "You  can  call  me  on  the  telephone  if 
you  hear  anything.  It's  a  good  thing  I  succeeded 
in  getting  it  installed.  I'll  call  you  once  in  a  while, 
too." 

So  convinced  were  they  all  of  Rose's  flight  with 
(or  to)  Herman  Schelling  that  they  did  not  even 
consider  any  other  aspect  of  her  absence.  Their 
only  hope  was  that  Rose  might  repent  her  rashness 
before  disaster  became  irrevocable. 

Constance,  dressing  to  go  out,  saw  her  own  face  so 
white  in  the  looking-glass  that  she  rummaged  for  a 
box  of  rouge,  which  she  seldom  brought  into  requisi- 
tion. With  her  high  color  and  the  proud  poise  of 
her  head,  she  gave  an  impression  of  ease  and  satis- 
faction which  accorded  ill  with  the  deadly  sorrow  in 
her  heart.  In  the  shop,  she  had  a  day  more  than 
ordinarily  busy.  The  arrival  of  new  goods  neces- 
sitated the  rearrangement  of  the  cupboard  and  the 
shelves.  It  seemed,  too,  that  every  time  she  made  a 
carefully-worked-out  display  in  the  window,  some- 
body bought  one  of  the  articles  of  which  it  was  com- 
posed, and  she  had  to  think  the  whole  thing  out 
again.  Between  tasks  she  was  at  her  hand-work, 
hemming  guest  towels  for  their  crocheted  borders. 


328  SUPPORT 

Suzanne  was  in  a  romping  mood,  and  claimed  her 
share  of  attention. 

Once  an  hour,  Constance  called  her  mother  on  the 
telephone:  "Any  news?" 

"No,  not  any."  The  reply  would  be  given  in  a 
broken  voice,  trailing  off  into  sobs. 

"I'll  come  home  as  early  as  I  can,"  said  Constance, 
in  misery  for  her  mother's  suffering.  "Don't  you 
want  Mrs.  Clarges  or  someone  to  come  and  stay  with 
you?"  Her  father,  she  knew,  was  but  small  conso- 
lation. 

"No!  no!"  anwered  Mrs.  Fenton,  almost  wildly. 
"We  can't  have  anyone  wondering  and  prying.  I 
couldn't  bear  that." 

"Well,  don't  give  way.  Please  don't,"  the  daugh- 
ter pleaded.  "It  may  come  out  all  right,  yet." 

"I  don't  see  how  it  can." 

"Well,  I'll  come  home  a  soon  as  possible."  It  was 
goading  pride  which  forced  Constance  to  go  about 
her  shop  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  Once  she  saw 
Hilda  Farrar  passing,  on  the  other  side  of  the  street, 
but  she  hardly  gave  her  a  thought,  so  full  was  her 
mind  of  anguish  and  terror  for  the  absent  little  sis- 
ter. 

Early  in  the  afternoon,  Sally  Rathvon  telephoned 
breathlessly.  "Oh,  Connie!  I've  heard  of  a  little 
apartment  over  on  College  Avenue  that's  going  to 
be  for  rent,  right  away.  It's  so  hard  to  get  anything 
at  this  tune  of  year,  that  it  seems  almost  a  miracle 
to  hear  of  one.  Don't  you  want  to  go  and  look  at 
it?"  Sally,  of  course,  knew  nothing  of  Rose's  flight. 


SUPPORT  329 

"My  dear  Sally,"  said  Constance,  herself  almost 
breathless  at  the  very  thought  of  a  "little  apart- 
ment" that  she  might  at  least  "look  at" — "I  don't 
want  to  hear  about  it.  I  can't  afford  an  apartment, 
and  I  can't  leave  mother  alone." 

"Alone!  Good  gracious,  there  are  your  father 
and  Rose;  she  had  them  before  you  came,  and  per- 
haps was  just  as  happy." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Constance,  with  a  pang.  In  spite 
of  her  efforts  and  intentions,  she  had  not  succeeded 
in  making  her  mother  happier.  "How  does  that  flat 
happen  to  be  for  rent?" 

"Why,  one  of  the  instructors  in  Grif  s  department 
had  it,  that  young  Doctor  Kohlsaat,  you  know ;  and 
he's  been  called  to  the  University  of  Colorado,  to 
take  the  place  of  someone  who  died  or  something, 
I  don't  know  exactly  what.  He  and  his  wife  are 
moving  right  out.  They  have  a  year's  lease,  of 
course,  but  they  want  to  sublet." 

"It's  a  great  chance!"  meditated  Constance.  "I 
wish  I  could  have  it,  Sally.  Do  you  know  how  many 
rooms  there  are?" 

"Three  or  four,  I  don't  know  which.  I  called  on 
the  Kohlsaats,  but  I've  forgotten.  You  could  make 
the  place  look  a  lot  better.  It's  a  kind  of  cheap  flat, 
you  know,  Connie — up  two  flights,  and  at  the  back 
of  the  house,  and  one  of  the  bedrooms  has  a  sloping 
roof,  I  think  Mrs.  Kohlsaat  told  me.  The  rent  is 
almost  nothing.  Oh,  Connie!"  Mrs.  Rathvon's 
voice  vibrated  with  her  eagerness  that  her  friend 
should  have  a  home.  "It  would  be  wicked  not  to 


330  SUPPORT 

take  it,  when  you  want  a  place  of  your  own  so 
much!" 

"I  know,  dear."    Even  in  her  wretchedness,  Con- 
stance felt  herself  thrilling  at  the  prospect  of  a  place 

of  her  own.    "But " 

"Don't  turn  it  down  without  thinking  it  over," 
Mrs.  Rathvon  admonished  her.    "Promise  me  that." 
"I  won't."    It  was  easy  to  promise,  but  harder  to 
think. 

"Is  there  anything  the  matter?"  asked  Sally  sus- 
piciously. "Your  voice  sounds  queer." 

"There's  always  something  the  matter,"  answered 
Constance  with  an  evasive  laugh. 
"Is  there  anything  new?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  now.  There's  someone  coming 
in."  Constance  left  the  telephone,  and  went  to  wait 
on  a  customer.  "A  cheap  little  flat!"  she  was  saying 
to  herself.  "Just  room  enough  for  Suzanne  and  me; 
and  the  rent  almost  nothing."  It  would  seem  silly, 
she  knew,  to  lookers-on,  for  her  to  leave  a  big  house, 
in  which  she  could  be  with  her  father  and  mother, 
and  take  a  ratty  little  place  under  a  roof,  just  to  be 
by  herself.  It  would  look  as  if  the  family  couldn't 
get  along  together — as  if  they  had  quarreled,  or  as 
if  she  had  made  herself  unpleasant.  It  would  be  a 
ridiculous  thing  to  do.  She  shrank  at  the  thought 
of  what  Wilbur  would  say. 

Wilbur.  He  had  a  home  now.  She  remembered 
with  what  quickened  pulses  she  had  listened  to  his 
description — it  had  trees,  a  garden,  a  vine  over  the 
porch.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  difference  between 


SUPPORT  331 

that  sort  of  home,  and  the  three  little  rooms,  two 
flights  up.  But  then,  she  had  Suzanne;  and  Wilbur 
had  no  child.  After  all,  things  were  evened.  It  was 
right  that  Wilbur  should  have  a  home.  It  was  too 
bad  to  pay  out  everything  one  earned  for  rent.  It 
had  been  hard,  too,  for  both  Wilbur  and  Eleanor  not 
to  have  the  free  use  of  what  Wilbur  earned.  They 
had  given  up  a  good  deal  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fenton. 
"I'm  glad  they  can  have  their  home,  anyhow,"  Con- 
stance was  thinking,  "even  if  a  little  of  my  money 
had  to  go  into  it.  But  now  they  mustn't  complain  if 
I  want  a  little  corner  that  I  can  call  my  own."  It 
was  not  a  question  of  space,  she  argued.  It  was  a 
question  of  individuality — of  unhampered  develop- 
ment for  herself  and  for  Suzanne. 

Lida,  the  high-school  girl  who  helped  her,  came  at 
five  o'clock.  With  a  few  hurried  instructions  about 
the  new  stock,  Constance  took  Suzanne  and  went 
home,  unwillingly,  and  yet  with  speed.  Hopes  and 
forebodings  urged  her  on.  Suzanne  trotted  happily 
beside  her.  "Will  Auntie  Rose  be  home?"  she  asked, 
holding  close  to  her  foster-mother's  hand. 

"I  hope  so,  dearie."  Constance  was  sick  with 
apprehension  when  she  reached  the  door. 

Her  mother  met  her  with  a  letter  in  her  hand.  "A 
special,"  she  said.  "It  came  just  a  minute  ago." 

Constance  felt  her  hand  shaking  as  she  reached  for 
the  letter.  "Is  it  good  news?"  she  found  voice  to 
ask. 

"No,  except  that  she's  alive." 

The  letter  contained  only  a  few  words:    Dear 


332  SUPPORT 

mother,  I  thought  you  might  be  worrying  about  me. 
Don't.  I'm  all  right.  Rose. 

"The  postmark?"  cried  Constance,  turning  over 
the  envelope  with  anxious  haste. 

"It  was  mailed  on  the  train.  The  mark  is  blurred, 
too."  Mrs.  Fenton  spoke  without  hope. 

Constance  put  down  the  letter  with  a  baffled  ges- 
ture. For  a  moment,  she  had  had  a  vision  of  herself 
rushing  off  to  whatever  town  the  postmark  bade, 
snatching  her  sister  from  agonies  and  perils.  "Oh, 
well,  mother,  we're  thankful  that  we've  heard,"  she 
said.  "And  all  we  can  do  is  wait."  She  knelt  to 
help  Suzanne  with  the  ribbons  of  her  kitty-hood, 
which  had  a  way  of  getting  damply  knotted.  Con- 
stance's head  was  swimming.  She  had  neither  slept 
nor  eaten,  she  had  had  a  hard  day,  and  now  the  sud- 
den hope  and  its  destruction  left  her  weak.  She 
fumbled  at  the  ribbons,  hardly  able  to  lift  her 
hands.  Trembling,  she  drew  the  head  of  her  child 
to  her  breast.  "Oh,  Rose!  Rose!"  she  cried.  "Oh, 
darling,  your  lovely  Auntie  Rose!"  For  a  space  not 
even  courage  could  suppress  her  grief. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


THAT  night,  Mrs.  Fenton,  exhausted  and  at  least 
a  trifle  relieved,  went  to  bed  early.  Mr.  Fenton  shut 
himself  into  the  study.  Suzanne  went  obediently  to 
bed  at  her  usual  hour.  Constance  had  regained  con- 
trol of  herself,  and  had  been  refreshed  by  a  substan- 
tial dinner.  "Why  shouldn't  I  go  and  look  at  that 
flat?"  she  asked  herself,  when  the  house  had  settled 
down  to  silence,  and  she  had  finished  putting  the 
kitchen  in  order.  She  was  tired  beyond  all  expres- 
sion— too  tired  to  sleep — and  too  nervous  to  sit 
calmly  down  with  needle  or  book.  "It  will  distract 
my  attention  from  my  troubles,"  she  said. 

She  put  on  her  wraps  and  went  quietly  out.  She 
had  looked  up  the  address  of  the  Kohlsaats  in  the 
College  Directory,  so  that  she  was  not  at  a  loss  to 
find  the  place.  It  was  in  a  good,  though  not  elegant, 
part  of  the  Avenue,  and  the  house  was  a  modern 
wooden  structure  which  had  been  turned  into  flats. 
She  found  the  young  couple  in  the  midst  of  packing, 
bewildered  but  happy  in  the  prospect  of  a  bettered 
position.  There  were  really  four  rooms,  besides  the 
bath:  a  living  room,  two  bedrooms  (one  with  the 
sloping  ceiling),  and  a  tiny  clean  white  kitchen.  The 

333 


334  SUPPORT 

rent  was  laughably  low — to  anyone  who  had  paid 
the  prices  demanded  by  New  York  landlords;  but 
even  so  it  presented  a  terrifying  aspect  to  Constance, 
whose  income  was  not  yet  assured,  and  whose  con- 
science was  still  heavy  with  the  debt  to  Sally.    The 
flat  was  steam-heated,  so  that  there  would  not  be 
any  question  of  buying  coal — that  precious  com- 
modity which  was  purchased  at  such  a  heart-break- 
ing price  and  which  vanished  away  with  such  sicken- 
ing   rapidity.      Even    though    she    furnished    it 
meagerly,  there  would  be  a  considerable  expense 
involved  in  getting  moved  and  settled.    And  there 
would  be  other  expenses — those  things  mount  up  so. 
Dare  she  attempt  it?    She  bit  her  lips,  pondering. 
The  Kohlsaats  were  eager  to  close  with  her.    Mrs. 
Rathvon,  it  seemed,  had  assured   them   that  she 
would  take  it,  and  had  urged  them  to  save  it  until 
she    came!      Misery    makes    people    reckless.      "I 
couldn't  be  much  worse  off  than  I  am  now,"  thought 
Constance,  at  the  same  time  permitting  herself  the 
smallest  glimmer  of  a  hope  that  sometime  Rose 
would  come  back  and  would  accept  a  refuge.    She 
assured  the  Kohlsaats  that  she  would  take  the  flat, 
paying  rent  from  the  beginning  of  the  month,  which 
was  only  a  few  days  off.    She  gave  them  a  check  for 
ten  dollars,  to  bind  the  bargain. 

She  went  home  seething  with  surprise,  distrust, 
anxiety,  and  self-condemnation.  No  doubt  she  had 
done  a  foolish  thing,  which  might  have  to  be  cor- 
rected, with  chagrin.  But  again  she  had  done  what 
she  desired,  and  again  her  heart  exulted.  She  could 


SUPPORT  335 

stand  the  humiliation,  if  it  came;  and  there  was  a 
chance  that  her  little  domestic  venture  might  not 
fail.  Back  in  the  sitting-room  at  home,  she  devoted 
some  hours  to  financial  calculations;  and  she  wrote 
a  letter  to  Wilbur,  asking  him  to  find  her  a  hundred 
dollars.  She  made  her  petition  urgent,  but  humble, 
as  became  a  sister  asking  a  favor  of  a  brother.  She 
made  no  mention  of  the  tragedy  of  Rose. 


During  the  dreadful  days  which  followed,  she 
worked  harder  than  ever,  grateful  for  the  labors 
which  kept  her  from  losing  her  mind  with  worry. 
At  home,  Mrs.  Fenton  was  half-distracted  with  her 
new  affliction.  She  spent  a  good  deal  of  the  time  in 
tears.  Mr.  Fenton  was  morose  and  wordless.  He 
stayed  nearly  all  the  time  in  the  study,  reading  or 
brooding.  Sometimes  he  paced  back  and  forth,  with 
mutterings.  When  callers  came — they  had  not  many 
— and  mention  was  made  of  Rose,  they  said  casually 
that  Rose  had  gone  away  for  a  few  days — hoping 
fervently  that  their  statement  was  true.  Suzanne 
began  to  droop  again  under  the  influence  of  gloom. 
She  asked  continually  for  Auntie  Rose.  "I  feel  as  if 
I  must  keep  her  out  of  the  house,"  thought 
Constance. 

The  news  of  the  apartment  fell  upon  listless  ears. 
Where  a  few  days  before,  there  would  have  been 
angry  opposition,  there  was  now  only  weary  indiffer- 
ence. The  disappearance  of  Rose  so  overshadowed 


336  SUPPORT 

everything  else  that  the  idea  of  Constance's  moving 
was  regarded  with  incredulity  and  later  with  resigna- 
tion. It  would  be  a  little  while  before  the  flat  could 
be  put  in  order — some  of  Constance's  furnishings 
were  to  come  on  from  New  York — and  in  the  mean- 
time there  were  other  things  to  think  about.  Con- 
stance privately  decided  not  to  wait  for  the  favors 
which  the  freight  departments  of  the  railroads  might 
confer  upon  her.  She  made  furtive  preparations  for 
taking  up  her  abode  in  the  bare  little  flat.  Wilbur 
had,  almost  to  her  amazement,  sent  her  the  hundred 
dollars.  He  explained  that  Eleanor's  father  had  lent 
it  to  him,  counting  it  as  a  help  in  buying  the  house. 
He  intimated  that  her  getting  "hard  up"  was  no  sur- 
prise to  him,  and  he  hoped  that  she  would  not  go  to 
smash  entirely.  He  sent  love  to  his  father  and 
mother  and  Rose. 

Sally  was  overjoyed  at  the  courage  which  Con- 
stance had  exhibited  in  taking  the  flat.  "You  and 
Suzanne  couldn't  go  on  living  there  in  the  house," 
she  said.  "It  would  have  been  too  much  for  both 
of  you." 

"It's  a  frightful  economic  waste,"  said  Constance 
guiltily;  "keeping  up  two  establishments  where  one 
would  serve  as  well." 

"You  could  say  that  of  any  two  families,"  Sally 
retorted.  "Mr.  Brown  and  his  wife  and  children 
might  live  with  Mr.  Smith  and  his  wife  and  children, 
and  they  would  all  save  money.  But  they  want 
their  individual  homes." 

"I  see,"  answered  Constance.     "But  don't  you 


SUPPORT  337 

think  I'm  cruel,  to  go  and  leave  mother?"  This  was 
the  question  which  had  given  her  the  most  concern, 
in  spite  of  her  financial  shortage. 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Sally,  with  a  burst  of  her  un- 
wonted brusquerie.  "I  believe  she'll  be  happier 
when  you've  gone.  She  doesn't  approve  what  you 
do,  and  Suzanne  worries  her;  and  now  that  Mrs. 
Greening  comes  in  more  frequently,  she  won't  miss 
your  help  around  the  house  quite  so  much  as  she 
would  have  missed  it  a  while  ago.  You're  out  so 
much  that  she  has  got  used  to  your  absence.  Now 
she'll  see  you  every  day,  but  without  the  annoyance 
of  a  closer  contact." 

"But  Rose "  began  Constance,  feeling  brave 

enough  to  speak.  Then  all  at  once  she  was  leaning 
on  Sally's  shoulder,  gasping  out  the  story  of  the  little 
sister  gone. 

Sally  waited  till  the  gust  of  emotion  had  passed. 
Then  she  gave  her  comforting  pronouncement: 
"Well,  Connie,  don't  take  too  hopeless  a  view  of  it. 
If  she's  married  him,  it's  unfortunate,  but  not  eter- 
nally tragic.  You've  proved,  yourself,  that  an  un- 
desirable marriage  can  be  dissolved.  If  she  hasn't 
married  him,  so  much  the  better.  It's  less,  hi  a 
way,  to  work  out  of.  But  anyhow,  you  can't  man- 
age her  life  for  her.  She'll  have  to  be  an  individual, 
like  anybody  else." 

"I  know  it."  Constance  found  herself  seeing  the 
affair  more  sanely.  "I  feel,  myself,  that  individu- 
ality is  the  greatest  thing  in  life.  The  attempt  to 
dominate  another  person's  life  is  the  greatest  crime." 


338  SUPPORT 

"You're  more  than  half  right.  And  I'm  strongly 
of  the  opinion  that  Rose  will  come  back.  Try  to  be 
as  sensible  as  you  can,  dear.  You  have  your  own 
plans  to  think  of.  If  you  have  those  in  order,"  Mrs. 
Rathvon  continued  sagely,  "you'll  be  hi  a  far  better 
state  to  do  something  for  Rose  when  she  needs  it." 
"Oh,  if  I  only  can!"  Constance  pressed  the  hand 
which  was  caressing  hers.  "Well,  I'll  go  ahead  with 
the  flat." 

"I  would."  The  commonplace  good  sense  which 
Sally  just  escaped  overdoing  had  a  bracing  effect 
upon  her  friend.  "I  was  going  to  say  that  there  are 
one  or  two  things  around  the  house  that  I  could  let 
you  take  for  a  while,  until  you  feel  more  like  spend- 
ing money  on  furniture.  There's  that  Canton  chair, 
and  there's  that  mirror  in  the  hall  upstairs,  and — let 
me  see — some  cushions  and  bookshelves,  and  a  few 
other  things.  You  have  bedding,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  and  table-linen,  and  curtains  and  such 
things,  and  a  rug  or  two — the  sort  of  thing  that  I 
could  pack  into  boxes." 

"Goodness  me !  Your  flat  is  furnished  already.  I 
know  you  hate  a  cluttered  house  and  a  lot  of  flub- 
dubs around,  as  much  as  I  do.  Tell  me  something," 
said  Sally  suddenly,  "are  you  seeing  anything  of 
Alison?" 

Constance  started.  She  had  been  so  absorbed  in 
the  affairs  of  the  home  that  she  had  hardly  had  time 
for  Alison.  She  shook  her  head.  "Not  very  much," 
she  admitted.  "He  doesn't  approve  of  my  having 
the  shop " 


SUPPORT  339 

"Of  course  he  wouldn't!" 

"And  then  there's " 

"Hilda  Farrar."     Sally  supplied  the  name  over 
which  the  tongue  of  Constance  stumbled. 

"Yes." 

"Is  he  going  back  to  her?" 

"I   don't  know.     It  looks  like  it."     Constance 
turned  her  face  away. 

Mrs.   Rathvon   took  hold   of  her   arm.     "Con- 
nie  "  she  said. 

"What  is  it?"    Constance  faced  her  with  an  effort, 
biting  her  lip. 

"Nothing.    I  won't  say  it." 


Constance  went  over  to  the  flat  that  evening,  after 
Suzanne  was  in  bed.  She  let  herself  in  and  turned 
on  the  lights.  Her  heart,  heavy  as  it  was,  managed  a 
leap  of  happiness.  She  stood  visualizing  the  home 
as  it  would  be.  Boxes  and  pieces  of  furniture  stood 
where  the  draymen  had  left  them.  Mentally  she 
placed  the  old  mahogany  secretary-on-legs  which  her 
mother  had  given  her  from  the  sewing-room  at 
home;  the  gate-legged  table  which  was  to  come 
from  New  York;  Sally's  Canton  chair  and  book- 
cases ;  the  cot-couch  which  she  had  found  in  the  attic 
— brother  to  the  one  that  had  helped  to  furbish  up 
the  back  room  at  the  shop;  the  two  Baloochistan 
rugs;  the  low  willow  chair  which  she  had  bought. 
Impulsively  she  darted  forward,  and  began  pushing 


340  SUPPORT 

the  furniture  about,  forcing  each  piece  to  take  a  po- 
sition where  it  would  count  for  the  most.  She  pried 
open  the  boxes,  dragging  out  a  couch-cover,  cush- 
ions, the  two  rugs.  She  spread  the  rugs  and  the 
cover,  plumped  the  pillows,  pinned  up  a  square  of 
Chinese  embroidery  with  thumb-tacks,  stuck  up  a 
Japanese  print  over  the  bookcase.  She  couldn't  get 
the  covers  off  the  boxes  of  books;  so  they  had  to 
wait.  But  even  with  that  disadvantage,  the  place 
began  to  take  on  a  semblance  of  a  home.  She  had 
brought  a  parcel  of  curtains,  shortened  and  freshly 
pressed;  she  put  them  up,  rejoicing  in  the  curtain- 
rods  ready  at  hand.  She  pushed  and  hauled  the  full 
and  half-empty  boxes  to  the  kitchen,  and  then  stood 
again  in  the  middle  of  the  sitting-room,  exhausted 
but  triumphant.  Here  was  the  poor  little  "corner 
which  she  could  call  her  own,"  and  already  she  loved 
it  more  than  any  other  home  she  had  ever  had. 

She  could  not  refrain  from  going  on,  to  the  bed- 
rooms. In  one  of  them  stood  a  white  iron  bed, 
salvaged  from  Sally's  storeroom  (a  mahogany  one 
was  coming  from  New  York).  She  got  out  linen 
and  made  the  bed,  and  rummaged  successfully  for 
blankets.  She  would  buy  some  second-hand  pine 
furniture,  and  paint  it,  for  the  bedrooms.  Until 
then,  and  until  her  things  came  on  from  the  East, 
she  would  have  to  "camp  out."  It  didn't  matter. 
She  would  love  that,  too. 

When  she  got  home,  her  mother  was  sitting  up, 
faintly  reproachful.  "You  were  out  a  long  time," 
she  said. 


SUPPORT  341 

"Why  didn't  you  go  to  bed?"  Constance  still  bore 
in  her  face  the  exaltation  which  had  flashed  upon 
her  when  she  glimpsed  the  unfolding  of  her  home. 
"Mother,  my  flat's  almost  ready.  Suzanne  and  I 
could  get  on  very  well  there  now." 

Mrs.  Fenton  half  started  from  her  chair.  "Don't 
go,  Connie!  Don't  go  yet,"  she  cried.  "Don't  go 
till  Rose "  She  could  not  frame  the  rest. 

Constance  sat  down,  uncertain  how  to  reply.  "I 
wish  I  could  promise,  mother,  dear,"  she  said.  "But 
it  may  be — a  long  time " 

"Well,  wait  a  little  while,"  the  older  woman 
begged. 

"I  will." 

Mrs.  Fenton  turned  to  her  daughter,  saying  for 
the  fiftieth  time,  "Oh,  if  she  is  only  married!"  That 
thought  now  filled  her  mind. 

Constance's  lip  curled.  She  weighed  her  answer, 
and  then  made  none  at  all.  After  a  while  she  said, 
"Mother,  won't  you  go  to  bed?" 

Mrs.  Fenton  rose  heavily  with  the  motion  of  an 
old  woman.  Constance  had  never  seen  her  body 
yield  quite  that  gesture,  before.  "It's  hard,  wait- 
ing," said  the  mother  of  Rose. 


After  all,  they  did  not  have  long  to  wait.  The 
next  evening,  Rose  came  home.  Constance  was  in 
her  room,  putting  it  in  order  after  Suzanne  had  gone 
to  sleep.  All  at  once  there  was  a  ringing  in  her 


342  SUPPORT 

ears,  and  she  had  a  suffocated  feeling  in  her  throat. 
She  had  heard  the  opening  and  shutting  of  the  street 
door,  a  wild  exclamation,  a  hurried  confusion  of 
voices.  "Rose!"  Constance  closed  her  eyes,  steady- 
ing herself  against  the  nearest  solid  thing  at  hand. 
Her  relief  almost  equaled  her  fear. 

She  heard  Rose  saying,  "Not  now,  mother — — " 
and  then,  brokenly,  "I  want  Connie." 

Constance  flew  to  the  top  of  the  stairs.  Rose  was 
coming  up.  Her  father  and  mother  stood,  awed  and 
protesting,  below.  Rose  had  lost  the  spring  in  her 
step,  but  she  came  swiftly.  Constance  received  her 
without  a  word,  almost  without  a  caress — merely  a 
touch  of  love  upon  the  cheek. 

"My  room,"  said  Rose  imperiously.  Constance 
drew  her  into  the  room  and  lighted  the  gas.  She 
shut  the  door,  and  turned  to  her  sister.  Pity  and 
anger  and  sorrow  weighed  upon  her  heart.  "Oh, 
Rose!  Rose!"  was  all  that  she  could  say. 

Bravado  fell  from  the  girl  like  the  garment  which 
she  tossed  upon  the  bed.  "Oh,  Connie ! "  She  threw 
herself  into  a  chair,  and  bent  her  forehead  to  her 
arms.  She  was  trembling  and  convulsed,  yet  she  did 
not  weep. 

"Poor,  poor  child!"  Connie  put  her  arm  tightly 
over  Rose's  shoulder,  and  stood  waiting  for  the 
paroxysm  to  spend  itself. 

"Oh,  Connie,  Connie!"  There  seemed  no  more 
words  within  Rose's  power  of  speech. 

For  a  long  time  the  sisters  stayed  thus.  Rose  kept 
her  face  hidden.  Constance  wanted  to  say,  "Tell 


SUPPORT  343 

me,"  but  she  restrained  herself.  "I  don't  want  to 
force  her  to  tell  me  anything,"  she  thought.  "It 
wouldn't  be  fair." 

Rose  raised  her  head,  with  her  eyes  closed,  her 
hands  clenched,  and  made  a  despairing  gesture. 
Then  she  sank  back  into  her  former  posture  of  grief. 

"Listen,  Rose,"  said  Constance  firmly,  shaking  the 
girl's  shoulder,  "you're  back  at  home,  now.  Every- 
thing is  all  right.  Stand  up.  Take  off  your  hat. 
There,  that's  better.  Where  are  your  gloves?  Here 
they  are.  You're  all  wet.  It's  a  horrible  day." 

"Yes,  a  horrible  day,"  echoed  Rose,  wincing. 

"It's  over  now."  Constance  was  grim  and  prac- 
tical. "Take  off  your  skirt.  It's  drabbled,  short  as 
it  is,"  she  said  with  a  humorless  smile.  Rose  obeyed, 
as  if  glad  to  humble  herself  to  her  sister's  commands. 
"Take  off  your  shoes.  I'll  get  my  kimono."  Con- 
stance went  into  her  own  room.  In  the  glass,  her 
face  looked  strange  and  harrowed.  Back  in  Rose's 
room,  she  bustled  about,  pulling  down  the  shades, 
turning  back  the  counterpane,  and  replacing  the 
pillows.  "Now  lie  down  and  rest.  You're  worn 
out." 

"Yes — worn  out."  Rose  lay  down,  cuddled  like 
a  child,  with  her  knees  up.  She  closed  her  eyes, 
sighing.  Her  lips  trembled,  and  at  intervals  she 
shivered. 

"Now  you  must  have  something  to  eat,"  said  Con- 
stance. 

"No,  no!" 

"Yes.    You  haven't  eaten  anything,  all  day,  have 


344  SUPPORT 

you?"    Constance  was  standing  by  the  bed,  looking 
down  at  the  girl's  white  face. 

"I  don't  think  so.     I  can't  remember." 

"Lie  still.  Don't  think  about  anything."  Con- 
stance brought  a  light  covering  and  tucked  it  about 
the  supine  young  creature  on  the  bed;  then  closed 
the  door,  and  went  downstairs. 

In  the  hall,  her  mother  clutched  at  her.  "How  is 
she?  What  does  she  say?" 

"She's  all  right.  Just  tired.  She  doesn't  say  any- 
thing. What  is  there  to  say?"  Constance  spoke 
coldly  to  quench  her  mother's  burning  fears. 

"Is  she— is  she " 

"Married?"  Constance  supplied  the  word.  "I 
hope  not,"  she  said  vehemently. 

Mrs.  Fenton  drew  back  shocked,  as  at  some  blas- 
phemy. "How  can  you?"  she  cried,  putting  up  her 
hands. 

"What  good  would  it  be?" 

"It's  bad  enough — but  it's  better  than — not,"  the 
older  woman  defended  herself. 

"Is  it?"  Constance  heard  her  father  pacing  in  the 
study.  "There  isn't  much  for  him  to  say,"  she 
thought  swiftly,  remembering  his  past.  She  was 
glad  she  had  not  said  it  to  him.  Old  age  was  pun- 
ishment enough,  without  the  cruelty  of  gibes.  Mrs. 
Fenton  crept  to  the  study  door.  Constance  went  on 
into  the  kitchen,  and  prepared  a  hot  dish  on  a  tray. 
She  hurried  with  her  task,  uneasy  at  leaving  Rose 
alone.  Then  she  went  up  the  back  stairs  with  her 
tray. 


SUPPORT  345 

Rose  had  not  moved,  but  she  was  not  dozing.  Her 
eyes  were  open,  staring  at  the  ceiling.  Constance 
put  her  tray  on  the  stand  beside  the  bed.  In  her 
mind  was  a  passage  from  the  New  Testament,  "and 
he  commanded  that  something  should  be  given  her 
to  eat."  She  could  not  place  it. 

She  made  Rose  sit  up  and  eat  the  food  before  her. 
The  face  of  the  girl  took  on  more  color.  She  ate 
mechanically,  but  with  growing  gratitude.  "It  was 
what  I  needed,"  she  confessed. 

Constance  put  the  tray  aside.  She  leaned  over  the 
girl.  "Rose!"  she  whispered. 

Her  voice  and  face  had  in  them  so  much  tender- 
ness that  all  reserve  gave  way.  Rose  put  up  her 
arms  and  held  her  sister's  cheek  to  hers.  "How  can  I 
go  on?"  she  said  at  last. 

"You've  left  him?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  you — were  you ?" 

"Married — yes.  At  Waukegan.  He  had  a  license ; 
he  went  on  ahead."  The  voice  was  almost 
inaudible. 

Constance  hesitated.    "But  why " 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  know."  The  girl's  body 
writhed  with  shame.  "I  don't  know  why  I  did  it. 
How  does  one  know?  I  suppose  it  was  because  I 
thought  it  would  be  daring — and  because  everybody 
was  so  opposed  to  it — because  everybody  was 
against  me."  Her  voice  broke.  "I  can't  see  what 
else  could  have  made  me  do  it." 

Constance  sickened  with  regrets.     "Poor  child! 


346  SUPPORT 

We  ought  to  have  done  something,  some  of  us,"  she 
murmured. 

"You  couldn't,"  Rose  returned  honestly.  "Noth- 
ing would  have  done  any  good.  I  just  had  to  go 
through  it,  I  guess." 

The  older  sister  tried  to  console  herself  with  thig. 
Presently  she  began  again.  "Did  he — was  he ?" 

Rose  shuddered.  "I  had  to  go.  It  wasn't " 

she  tried  to  explain — "I  mean  he "  She  could 

not  go  on. 

"You  mean — he  wasn't  really  unkind,"  said  Con- 
stance in  a  matter-of-fact  tone. 

"Yes,  that's  what  I  mean.  But  I  couldn't " 

She  turned  away  and  shuddered.  Tears  ran  slowly 
down  her  cheeks. 

Constance  fell  upon  her  knees  and  held  her  sister 
hard  in  her  arms.  For  a  long  time  there  was  no 
sound  in  the  room  but  the  sputtering  of  the  gas,  the 
clap-clap  of  a  shutter  wriggling  in  the  wind.  Con- 
stance was  not  conscious  of  thinking  at  all.  She 
was  conscious  only  of  an  ache,  as  if  her  own  soul, 
instead  of  Rose's,  had  been  hurt  and  bruised. 

"I  can  count  on  you,"  breathed  Rose,  after  a 
grievous  space,  "to — to  understand?" 

"Yes.  You  can  count  on  me."  Constance  got  up 
and  took  the  dishes  away. 

In  the  hall,  her  mother  clutched  at  her  again. 
The  older  hands  were  shaking.  "Did  you  find  out 
anything?  Is  she — married?" 

"Yes."  The  daughter  spoke  almost  mockingly. 
"Set  your  mind  at  rest.  She  is." 


SUPPORT  347 

"Thank  God." 

"I  don't  believe  God  has  anything  to  do  with  it." 
Constance  knew  that  she  was  speaking  without 
wisdom. 

"It's  terrible  to  hear  you  say  such  things  as  that," 
wailed  the  older  woman,  cringing. 

"I  know  I  shouldn't  do  it.  You  don't  understand. 

I  only  meant "  There  was  not  much  use  in 

trying  to  explain,  but  she  would  try,  thought 
Constance. 

Her  mother  interrupted  her,  her  thin  frame  stif- 
fening. "I  can't  help  feeling  that  you're  to  blame 
for  it  all!"  she  flared. 

Constance  only  looked  at  her  and  then  walked 
on.  She  was  not  even  wounded  now.  These  words 
of  reproach  meant  so  little  that  she  could  afford 
to  disregard  them.  "Where's  father?"  she  said, 
looking  over  her  shoulder  from  the  dining-room 
door. 

"In  the  study.    He  won't  say  a  word." 

"That's  the  wisest  course  we  can  any  of  us  take," 
said  Constance.  She  went  back  to  Rose.  "Don't 
you  want  to  see  mother?"  she  asked,  with  gentleness. 
"She  feels  dreadfully  not  to  see  you.  And  Poppy, 
too." 

"No!"  Rose  moved  fretfully  on  the  pillow.  Then 
she  repented.  "Yes,  I  will,"  she  said. 

"It  would  be  better,"  Constance  made  answer. 
"You  don't  want  to  hurt  them  too  much." 

"I  suppose  I  have  already,"  said  Rose  faintly. 

"We  all  felt  worried,"  Constance  replied.    This 


348  SUPPORT 

was  no  time  for  an  elaboration  of  past  miseries.  "I'll 
call  mother.  She'll  be  so  glad." 

Mrs.  Fenton  came  into  the  room,  her  lined  face 
tremulous.  Rose  lifted  herself  on  her  elbow.  "Hello, 
mother!"  she  said  in  a  casual  tone. 

"My  dear,  dear  child!"  Mrs.  Fenton  bent  and 
kissed  her  daughter  dramatically.  Rose  gave  her 
cool  lips  in  return.  "We've  been  nearly  crazy!" 
wept  Mrs.  Fenton,  unable  to  restrain  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  previous  days.  Constance  discerned, 
however,  her  mother's  great  relief  in  the  certainty 
that  Rose  had  been  a  victim  of  nothing  worse  than 
lawful  wedlock. 

"You  needn't  have  been."  Rose  was  growing 
petulant,  shrinking  from  a  discussion  of  her 
escapade. 

"Won't  you  bring  father?"  Constance  was  eager 
to  avoid  recriminations. 

Rose  lay  back  and  closed  her  eyes.  Mr.  Fenton 
came,  gaunt  and  distressed.  There  were  tears  in  his 
eyes.  Constance  had  thought  to  warn  him  against 
upbraidings;  she  saw  now  that  there  had  been  no 
need.  He  took  Rose's  hand  as  it  lay  loosely  on  the 
counterpane.  "We're  glad  you've  come  home,  Little 
Girl,"  was  all  he  said. 

"I'm  glad,  too,  Poppy."  Rose  smiled  up  sidewise 
at  him.  He  looked  down  at  her  sadly  and  went 
away. 

"You'll  sleep  with  me?"  said  Rose  to  Constance. 
"Suzanne  won't  mind?" 


SUPPORT  349 

"No.  She  won't  wake  up.  Of  course  I'll  stay 
with  you  if  you  want  me  to." 

"How  is  Suzanne — dear  little  thing?" 

"She's  well,  I  think — but  a  little  strained  and 
nervous.  She's  asked  about  you  a  good  deal;  and 
she  felt  that  there  was  something  wrong  in  the 
house.  She  is  more  sensitive  than  one  would  think." 

"This  is  no  place  for  her,"  said  Rose  with  sudden 
passion. 

"I  don't  believe  it  is  what  she  ought  to  have," 
Constance  agreed. 

They  made  ready  for  bed.  All  night  the  two 
sisters  clung  to  each  other  in  a  fervent  long  embrace. 
The  younger  one  slept  at  last,  but  the  elder  lay 
tense  and  wakeful,  as  she  had  done  on  that  first 
night  with  Suzanne. 

Her  thoughts  were  solemn,  but  not  devoid  of  hope. 
Rose  would  never  go  back  to  Schelling,  she  knew. 
She  doubted  whether  he  would  even  have  the  bold- 
ness to  ask  for  her  return.  There  would  be  another 
divorce  in  the  family,  she  thought  with  an  ironical 
smile.  It  was  too  bad.  How  her  father  and  mother 
would  hate  it!  And  Wilbur — her  imagination  re- 
fused to  envision  Wilbur  on  the  war-path. 

And  Rose  must  somehow  take  up  life  again.  She 
was  broken,  humbled,  shamed.  She  had  done  a 
ridiculous  thing — an  inexcusable  one,  running  away 
with  a  man  whom  she  didn't  want,  whom  she 
couldn't  live  with  for  a  week.  Her  experience  had 
horrified  her,  shattered  the  high-spirited,  self-con- 
fident Rose,  and  made  her  over  into  something  dif- 


350  SUPPORT 

ferent  and  new.  She  would  pretend  to  self- justifica- 
tion, or  even  callousness;  but  in  spite  of  pretense 
she  was  shocked  at  her  own  folly,  was  abased,  tor- 
tured, almost  destroyed. 

"I'll  have  to  take  care  of  her,"  thought  Constance. 
"She  can  come  to  my  house.  She  never  could  bear 
it  here.  Sally  must  have  foreseen  something  of  the 
kind  when  she  insisted  on  my  taking  the  little  flat." 

So  this  was  the  way  it  was  to  turn  out.  She  had 
her  business,  her  home,  her  child,  and  Rose — two 
children,  one  might  really  say.  She  must  lift  and 
carry  the  burdens  for  them  all,  must  go  forward  with 
other  people's  loads  until  those  other  people  were 
able  to  support  their  own. 

Once  or  twice  she  let  her  mind  turn  toward  Alison 
Sharland;  but  the  sting  of  remembrance  was  too 
strong.  Her  thoughts  leaped  back  from  what  they 
could  not  endure,  and  faced  again  the  practical 
problem  of  living.  That  was  what  she  was  to  be 
concerned  with  now:  dollars  and  cents;  buying  and 
selling;  cleaning  and  cooking  and  sewing;  figuring 
and  scrimping  to  make  both  ends  meet,  to  fulfill  the 
demands  which  had  been  laid  upon  her — by  her  own 
choice,  partly,  and  by  forces  which  she  could  not 
control. 

She  sighed,  moving  her  cramped  limbs  cautiously, 
lest  she  should  waken  Rose.  The  younger  sister 
stirred,  giving  an  uneasy,  quivering  cry,  like  a  sick 
child's.  "Connie!"  Twitching  and  shivering,  she 
tightened  her  arms  around  the  shoulders  of  the  older 
woman. 


SUPPORT  351 

Constance  soothed  her.  "I'm  here,  dear.  Don't 
worry.  Everything  is  all  right  now."  The  clutch 
of  Rose's  arms  relaxed.  The  girl  fell  back  into  sleep 
again;  and  Constance  returned  to  her  unending 
round  of  thoughts. 


Early  one  evening,  a  week  later,  Constance  was  hi 
her  little  kitchen,  hurrying  with  the  after-dinner 
work.  The  telephone  bell  rang.  Sally  Rathvon  was 
speaking.  "I'm  coming  over,  Connie,"  she  said  in 
what  seemed  like  an  unnecessarily  strained  voice. 
"Grif's  just  gone  to  his  Psychology  Society  meeting, 
and  I  can  run  away  for  a  minute." 

"I'm  awfully  glad.  Come  right  along."  Con- 
stance went  to  wash  her  hands,  and  to  put  the  sit- 
ting-room to  rights.  Rose  was  in  the  bedroom,  tell- 
ing a  story  to  Suzanne. 

Constance  heard  Sally  toiling  up  the  stairs,  and 
ran  out  to  the  landing.  "It's  quite  a  climb  for  a 
stout  lady,"  laughed  Sally,  panting  a  little  after  the 
two  flights.  She  was  really  only  pleasingly  plump. 

"You'll  have  to  get  used  to  visiting  the  tene- 
ments," Constance  assured  her. 

Sally  held  a  newspaper  in  her  hand.  "I  found  it 
in  the  entry  below,"  she  said.  "I  thought  it  be- 
longed to  you." 

"Yes,  the  Evening  News"  said  Constance  care- 
lessly. "I  didn't  go  down  for  it.  One  never  knows 
just  when  it's  coming." 

Sally  handled  the  paper  as  if  it  were  obnoxious  to 


352  SUPPORT 

her.  "Take  it,"  she  said  with  an  odd  look  at  her 
friend. 

Constance  did  not  notice.  She  was  leading  the 
caller  into  the  sitting-room,  with  a  motion  of  pride 
toward  the  picture  which  the  shaded  yellow  light 
disclosed :  a  rather  bare  but  skillfully  arranged  room, 
homely  and  attractive. 

"How  nice  you  look  here,"  Sally  went  on.  "And 
how  smart  you  are,  Connie,  to  do  so  much  with 
every  little  thing!  You  have  the  home-maker's 
touch;  there's  no  doubt  about  that." 

Constance  gloated  over  the  simple  place.  "I  can 
make  it  forty  times  nicer,  as  time  goes  on,"  she  said, 
"when  I  get  my  own  things,  and  have  more  money 
to  spend."  She  pointed  out  some  of  the  changes 
which  she  had  made  since  Sally's  most  recent 
call. 

"Where's  Rose?"  asked  Sally. 

"In  my  bedroom  with  Suzanne." 

"How  is  she?"  inquired  the  guest. 

"  'Doing  as  well  as  can  be  expected/  "  returned 
Constance,  as  she  placed  a  chair  for  Mrs.  Rathvon. 
"She's  coming  back  to  herself  rather  well,  I  think, 
Sally.  She  cried  a  good  deal,  you  know,  the  day  the 
marriage  announcement  came  out  in  the  paper,  but 
she  has  been  somewhat  relieved  ever  since.  It  had 
to  be  done,  of  course." 

"Yes.  Of  course.  She  won't  see  Schelling?"  asked 
Sally  in  a  low  voice. 

"No.  She  says  she's  had  her  settlement  with  him, 
and  there's  nothing  more  to  say.  She  admits  that 


SUPPORT  353 

she's  been  unfair  to  him ;  but  she  can't  help  it  now, 
and  she  can't  hash  it  all  over." 

"How  does  he  accept  that?" 

"Pretty  decently,  so  far.  I  wrote  and  told  him 
that  Rose  wasn't  able  to  go  into  any  arguments  with 
him,"  Constance  explained,  "and  he  has  let  her 
alone.  But  I  suppose  we'll  have  to  fight  it  out  with 
him,  sooner  or  later." 

Sally  meditated.  "It's  hard  on  him,  in  a  way," 
she  remarked.  "But  there  was  no  excuse  for  his 
letting  Rose  do  as  she  did — or  urging  her  into  it, 
or  whatever  it  was  he  did." 

Constance  frowned.  "I  don't  know  exactly  how 
it  was.  I  haven't  asked  her,  and  she  hasn't  told  me. 
She's  so  glad  to  be  here,  that  she  hardly  wants  to 
talk  about  anything  else." 

"It's  the  best  thing  for  her,"  said  Sally. 

"She  can't  make  up  her  mind  to  go  back  to  college, 
but  I  think  she  will  in  the  fall.  In  the  meantime, 
she'll  help  me.  She  wants  to  learn  how  to  do  the 
needlework — she  told  me  so  to-day — and  she  can 
take  care  of  Suzanne,  and  look  after  the  house,  and 
perhaps  help  in  the  shop,  if  she  can  bring  herself 
to  it."  Constance  was  anxiously  enumerating  the 
ways  in  which  Rose  was  to  become  active  and  useful. 

"I  infer  that  Mr.  Schelling  is  not  going  to  be  asked 
to  support  her,"  interpolated  Sally,  smiling. 

"Not  asked  or  permitted,"  Constance  replied. 
"Mother  said  something  to  Rose  about  asking  for  an 
allowance  from  Herman,  and  Rose  nearly  had  a  fit. 
She  gets  dreadfully  hysterical  once  in  a  while,  you 


354  SUPPORT 

know.  Anyhow,  she's  firmly  set  on  never  taking  a 
cent  from  her — husband."  Constance  could  hardly 
bring  out  the  word — its  relation  to  Rose  seemed  so 
unreal. 

"You've  set  her  a  shocking  example,"  grinned 
Sally. 

"Haven't  I?"     Constance  sighed. 

"You  had  a  bad  time  with  Wilbur,  didn't  you?" 
queried  Mrs.  Rathvon. 

"Pretty  bad,"  Constance  admitted,  with  a  grimace. 

There  was  a  pause.  Sally  moved  uneasily  and 
nodded  toward  the  newspaper  on  a  chair.  "You 
haven't  read  it  to-night?"  she  said. 

"No."  Constance  caught  a  hidden  significance  in 
Sally's  tone.  "Is  there  anything  important  in  it?" 

"I  suppose  it  might  be  called  that.  I  think  you 

ought  to  see  it  before "  Sally  looked  toward  the 

door  of  the  bedroom. 

Constance  wondered.  "What  is  it?"  she  asked, 
beginning  to  be  afraid. 

Sally  reached  for  the  paper  and  looked  through 
the  closely-printed  sheets.  Then  she  folded  them 
back.  "Here,"  she  said,  with  sternness  in  her  face. 

Constance  took  the  paper,  and  held  it  down  into 
the  radius  of  the  light.  Engaged,  the  headline  ran. 
"The  engagement  is  announced — Miss  Hilda  Farrar 
— Mr.  Alison  D.  Sharland — Miss  Farrar  is — Mr. 
Sharland  is — the  Citizen's  Bank — — " 

It  was  all  confused  before  her  eyes.  Only  the  two 
names  stood  out:  Hilda  Farrar — Alison  Sharland. 

So  it  had  come. 


SUPPORT  355 

Constance  sat  unmoving,  the  paper  held  down  be- 
fore her.  She  heard  Sally's  voice  a  long  way  off, 
saying  violently,  "Don't  you  care,  Connie!  Don't 
you  care!" 

Constance  laid  the  paper  down.  She  breathed  in 
little  groaning  gasps  which  surprised  her,  and 
seemed  somehow  detached  from  her,  as  if  she  were 
listening  to  someone  else.  "I  expected  it,"  she  said 
at  last.  "I  knew  it  was  coming,  Sally.  But  oh !  it's 
hard!  it's  hard!"  She  bit  her  lips,  quivering  and 
straining  with  her  efforts  at  self-command. 

"I  know."  Sally's  hands  were  holding  both  of 
hers.  "You  didn't  really  care  for  him,  did  you, 
Connie?" 

Constance  let  her  shoulders  sag  wearily.  "I — / 
could  have  cared."  In  her  face  was  conscious  dis- 
illusionment as  well  as  wounded  love. 

"You  could  have  if  he  had  been  worthy  of  you, 
you  mean,"  cried  Sally — "if  he  had  been  a  man. 
But,  Connie,  my  dearest,  he  isn't  the  shadow  of  a 
man — he  isn't  worth  a  second  of  your  precious  time. 
Why,  he  isn't "  she  sought  vainly  for  a  charac- 
terization of  the  man  whom  she  so  scorned — "he 
isn't  anything!" 

Connie  drew  her  hand  away  to  press  it  to  her 
eyes.  "Isn't  that  just  the  tragedy  of  it?"  she  said. 
"Sally,  that's  the  thing  that  has  hurt  me — that  has 
killed  me — more  than  anything  else — to  feel  that  I 
had  so  much  to  give  to  him — (I  know  I  had)  and 
was  so  willing  to  pour  it  out  for  him — to  look  back 
and  see  that  I  was  ready  to  give  myself  so  generously 


356  SUPPORT 

to  a  man  that  didn't  care — that  couldn't  care — that 
wasn't — wasn't  anything!"  She  broke  down,  hold- 
ing her  hands  to  her  breast  to  still  her  sobbing. 

"Women  are  fools,"  said  Mrs.  Rathvon,  solemnly. 
"But  some  of  them  escape  the  rewards  of  their  fool- 
ishness. You  ought  to  thank  the  Lord,  Connie,  that 
you're  no  worse  off  than  you  are." 

"Meaning?"    Constance  wiped  her  tears. 

"That  at  least  you  haven't  got  into  the  muddle  of 
a  marriage  with  Alison  Sharland." 

"He  never  asked  me!"  Constance  laughed, 
though  her  lips  trembled. 

"He  didn't  have  sense  enough,"  snapped  Sally. 

"The  fact  remains."  Constance  sat  drooping,  with 
her  hands  folded  in  her  lap.  "Well,"  she  said,  "it's 
a  relief  to  know  that  it's  all  over,  anyhow." 

"You  have  things  before  you,"  said  Sally,  "so 
much  bigger  and  better  than  the  things  which  life 
with  him  would  mean." 

"I  know  that's  true,"  answered  Constance  slowly. 
She  was  thinking:  A  better  man  would  have  meant 
so  much  more  to  her — would  have  hurt  her  so  much 
more  in  the  renouncing.  It  was  far  more  bearable 
as  it  was.  "I'm  tired  now.  To-morrow  or  the  next 
day,  I  shall  be  courageous.  I  shall  be  glad  for  what 
I  have." 

"You'll  find  it  a  good  deal,"  her  friend  reminded 
her. 

"I'm  sure  of  it.  I  shall  go  on — enlarge  my  busi- 
ness, add  to  it,  branch  out  into  other  activities; 
have  a  better  home,  buy  one,  I  think."  Constance 


SUPPORT  357 

glimpsed  the  future.  "I'll  help  Rose,  and  look  after 
mother,  and  bring  up  Suzanne.  And  I'll  find  time 
for  reading,  too,  and  studying  and  thinking — even 
traveling;  it's  not  impossible.  I'll  interest  myself 
in  women's  clubs  and  public  needs,  and  politics — 
political  affairs,  I  mean.  I  shall  have  a  full  life,  and 
I  shan't  feel  any  lack." 

"You  will  be  too  busy  and  too  happy  to  regret," 
said  Sally  Rathvon. 

The  door  of  the  bedroom  opened,  and  Rose  stood 
on  the  threshold.  Her  dark  hair  framed  a  face  less 
vivid  than  it  had  been,  but  lovelier  and  finer.  She 
stood  poised,  uncertain.  Her  eyes  turned  to  her 
sister  with  confidence  and  love.  Constance  went 
over  to  her  with  the  gesture  of  a  mother,  and  kissed 
her  on  the  cheek. 


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